BANCROFT 

LIBRARY 

•> 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


SUN  AND  SADDLE  LEATHER 


SUN    AND    SADDLE 
LEATHER 


INCLUDING  GRASS   GROWN 
TRAILS    AND    NEW    POEMS 


BADGER  CLARK.  I  8  £3" 


ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM   PHOTOGRAPHS  BY 

L.  A.  HUFFMAN 
Eighth  Edition 


V€RlTATIlQ 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE   GORHAM    PRESS 


.  a 

cr 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  1917,  BY  CHARLES  BADGER  CLARK,  JR. 

COPYRIGHT,   1919,   1920,  BY  BADGER  CLARK 
COPYRIGHT,  1917,  1922,  BY  RICHARD  G.  BADGER 


The  Illustrations  are  from  Copyrighted  Originals  by 
L.  A.  Huffman,  Miles  City,  Montana. 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 
The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


4- 

JUBRARY 


<r 


TO  MY  FATHER, 

who,  in  his  long  life,  has  seldom  been 
conscious  of  a  man's  rough  exterior, 
or  unconscious  of  his  obscurest  virtue. 


PREFACE 

Cowboys  are  the  sternest  critics  of  those 
who  would  represent  the  West.  No  hypoc- 
risy, no  bluff,  no  pose  can  evade  them. 

Yet  cowboys  have  made  Badger  Clark's 
songs  their  own.  So  readily  have  they  circu- 
lated that  often  the  man  who  sings  the  song 
could  not  tell  you  where  it  started.  Many 
of  the  poems  have  become  folk  songs  of  the 
West,  we  may  say  of  America,  for  they  speak 
of  freedom  and  the  open. 

Generous  has  been  the  praise  given  Sun 
and  Saddle  Leather,  but  perhaps  no  criticism 
has  summed  up  the  work  so  satisfactorily  as 
the  comment  of  the  old  cowman  who  said, 
"You  can  break  me  if  there's  a  dead  poem  in 

the  book,  I  read  the  hull  of  it.  Who  in  H 

is  this  kid  Clark,  anyway?  I  don't  know  how 
he  knowed,  but  he  knows." 

That  is  what  proves  Badger  Clark  the  real 
poet.  He  knows.  Beyond  his  wonderful 

vii 


Preface 

presentation  of  the  West  is  the  quality  of  uni- 
versal appeal  that  makes  his  work  real  art. 
He  has  tied  the  West  to  the  universe. 

The  old  cowman  is  not  the  only  one  who 
has  wondered  who  Badger  Clark  was. 
Charles  Wharton  Stork,  speaking  of  Sun  and 
Saddle  Leather,  said:  "It  has  splendid  flavor 
and  fine  artistic  handling  as  well.  I  should 
like  to  know  more  of  the  author,  whether  he 
was  a  cow-puncher  or  merely  got  inside  his 
psychology  by  imagination." 

Badger  Clark  was  born  January  i,  1883,  at 
Albia,  Iowa.  His  ancestors  on  his  father's 
side  were  of  Puritan  stock  and  had  called 
themselves  Americans  for  seven  generations. 
His  mother's  people  were  Pennsylvania  Quak- 
ers. His  paternal  grandfather,  a  Vermonter, 
moved  West  in  1857  and  invested  heavily  in 
a  town  site  and  manufacturing  interests  in 
southern  Missouri.  He  was  an  Abolitionist 
and  indiscreet  enough  to  say  so.  The  climate 
of  southern  Missouri  was  particularly  insa- 
lubrious for  Abolitionists  at  that  period,  and 
Mr.  Clark's  neighbors  took  such  an  ardent 
interest  in  his  opinions  that  he,  with  his  two 

viii 


Preface 

sons,  slept  away  from  home  for  two  months 
because  they  were  expecting  to  be  the  guests 
of  honor  at  a  tar-and-feather  party  and  did 
not  care  to  involve  the  women-folk  of  the 
family. 

As  the  Civil  War  drew  on,  the  tar-and- 
feather  threat  was  complicated  with  strong 
possibilities  of  hemp  and  this,  with  malaria, 
made  the  location  so  unattractive  that  Mr. 
Clark  trailed  north  into  Iowa,  arriving  on 
free  soil  with  his  family,  two  wagon  loads 
of  household  effects,  and  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  in  money. 

The  father  of  the  author,  after  this  border 
experience,  naturally  enlisted  in  the  Union 
army,  and  served  in  the  Western  forces  until 
disabled  by  wounds  before  Vicksburg.  Re- 
turning north  he  entered  the  ministry  of  the 
Methodist  church  and  continued  therein  for 
the  rest  of  his  active  life,  retiring  in  1915  after 
an  exceptionally  successful  and  honored 
career  of  fifty-one  years  in  the  pulpit. 

Shortly  after  the  birth  of  Badger  Clark  the 
family  moved  to  Dakota,  which  was  then 
frontier  territory,  and  the  cowboy  poet's  first 

ix 


Preface 

taste  of  pioneering  was  at  the  age  of  six 
months,  when  his  mother,  in  the  absence  of 
his  father  and  elder  brothers,  carried  him  on 
one  arm  while  she  drove  a  plow  team  and 
turned  enough  sod  to  save  the  home  from  one 
of  the  sudden  prairie  fires  of  the  early  days. 

He  grew  up  in,  and  with,  the  state  of  South 
Dakota,  spending  his  'teen  years  in  the  Black 
Hills  at  Deadwood.  Deadwood  at  that  time 
was  trying  to  live  down  the  reputation  for 
exuberant  indecorum  which  she  had  acquired 
during  the  gold  rush,  but  her  five  churches 
operating  two  hours  a  week  could  make  little 
headway  against  the  competition  of  two  dance 
halls  and  twenty-six  saloons  running  twenty- 
four  hours  a  day.  This  "wide  open"  condi- 
tion of  things  familiarized  Mr.  Clark  with 
the  free-and-easy  moral  atmosphere  of  the  old 
West,  but  at  the  same  time  had  the  odd  effect 
of  making  him  a  teetotaler  in  defiance  of  all 
the  older  poetic  traditions. 

During  his  youth  he  showed  no  particular 
literary  tendencies  beyond  an  insatiable  ap- 
petite for  books.  Luckily  for  his  health  this 
was  balanced  by  an  equally  strong  passion  for 


Preface 

outdoor  life, — hunting,  fishing,  camping  or 
anything  of  that  sort,  providing  it  was  not  suf- 
ficiently practical  to  interfere  with  concurrent 
dreaming.  During  two  vacations  of  his  high 
school  course  he  went  overland  into  western 
Wyoming  and  spent  the  summer  on  the  ranch 
of  an  uncle  at  the  foot  of  the  Big  Horn  Moun- 
tains. 

Having  finished  the  high  school  with  no 
particular  scholastic  honors,  he  entered  Da- 
kota Wesleyan  University  and  studied  there 
for  a  year.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he  was 
given  an  opportunity  to  go  to  Cuba  in  con- 
nection with  one  of  the  colonizing  enterprises 
undertaken  there  at  the  close  of  the  Spanish 
war,  and  lack  of  money  and  a  romantic  tem- 
perament led  him  to  abandon  his  studies  for 
the  promise  of  a  more  adventurous  life  under 
tropic  skies, — a  step  he  afterward  regretted. 
The  colonization  project  fell  through  and  his 
fellow  colonists  returned  to  the  States,  but  he 
had  fallen  in  love  with  opalescent  surf  and 
the  rustle  of  warm  trade  winds  in  the  palms, 
and  so,  in  the  spirit  of  the  lotos-eaters  and 


XI 


Preface 

with  about  the  same  business  prospects,  he 
stayed. 

While  working  on  a  Camaguey  plantation 
a  year  later  he  had  the  misfortune  to  be  pres- 
ent at  a  dispute  between  his  employer  and 
two  native  neighbors  over  a  boundary  fence 
in  the  jungle.  In  the  course  of  the  argument 
one  of  the  natives  was  shot  and  Clark,  with 
the  usual  fate  of  innocent  bystanders,  shortly 
found  himself  in  irons  and  on  the  way  to  the 
carcel.  During  the  two  weeks  which  elapsed 
before  the  arrival  of  the  cash  for  his  bail,  he 
spent  his  time  in  a  cell  with  seventeen  Span- 
ish negroes  and  a  dog-eared  copy  of  the 
Rubaiyat  handed  in  by  an  American  friend  on 
the  outside. 

For  six  months  thereafter  he  divided  his 
attention  between  plantation  work,  paludic 
fever,  and  a  practical  course  in  Spanish  legal 
procedure,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he  was 
tried  and  acquitted,  and  then  turned  his  face 
toward  home  in  much  the  same  mental  and 
material  condition  as  the  prodigal  son  of  old. 

The  summer  of  his  return  was  spent  very 
much  to  his  taste,  with  a  surveying  party  in 

xii 


Preface 

the  Bad  Lands  of  South  Dakota.  That  fall  he 
took  up  an  agency  for  a  correspondence  school 
but  indifference  to  the  charms  of  the  business 
game  and  a  constitutional  aversion  to  dunning 
anybody  militated  against  his  success  and  he 
resigned  in  a  few  months  to  accept  the  city 
editorship  of  a  small  daily  paper  in  Lead, 
South  Dakota.  This  pleased  him  better,  but 
he  became  too  deeply  interested  in  it  and 
overwork,  together  with  the  after  effect  of 
tropical  fever,  led  to  a  sentence  of  exile  from 
his  beloved  Black  Hills  for  at  least  two  years, 
in  obedience  to  which  he  journeyed  south  to 
Arizona. 

In  the  cow  country  near  the  Mexican  bor- 
der, Badger  Clark  stumbled  unexpectedly  in- 
to paradise.  He  was  given  charge  of  a  small 
ranch  and  the  responsibility  for  a  bunch  of 
cattle  just  large  enough  to  amuse  him  but  too 
small  to  demand  a  full  day's  work  once  a 
month.  The  sky  was  persistently  blue,  the 
sunlight  was  richly  golden,  the  folds  of  the 
barren  mountains  and  the  wide  reaches  of  the 
range  were  full  of  many  lovely  colors,  and 
his  nearest  neighbor  was  eight  miles  away. 


Xlll 


Preface 

The  cowmen  who  dropped  in  for  a  meal 
now  and  then  in  the  course  of  their  intermin- 
able riding  appeared  to  have  ridden  directly 
out  of  books  of  adventure,  with  old  young 
faces  full  of  sun  wrinkles,  careless  mouths 
full  of  bad  grammar,  strange  oaths  and 
stranger  yarns,  and  hearts  for  the  most  part  as 
open  and  shadowless  as  the  country  they  daily 
ranged. 

In  the  evenings  as  Clark  placed  his  boot 
heels  on  the  porch  railing,  smote  the  strings 
of  his  guitar,  and  broke  the  tense  silence  of  the 
warm,  dry  twilight  with  song,  he  often  won- 
dered, as  his  eyes  rested  dreamily  on  the 
spikey  yuccas  that  stood  out  sharp  and  black 
against  the  clear  lemon  color  of  the  sunset 
west,  why  hermit  life  in  the  desert  was  tradi- 
tionally a  sad,  penitential  affair. 

In  a  letter  to  his  mother  a  month  or  two 
after  settling  in  Arizona,  he  found  prose  too 
weak  to  express  his  utter  content  and  perpe- 
trated his  first  verses.  She,  with  natural  pride, 
sent  the  verses  to  a  magazine,  the  old  Pacific 
Monthly,  and  a  week  or  two  later  the  desert 
dweller  was  astonished  beyond  measure  to 


xiv 


Preface 

receive  his  first  editorial  check.  The  discov- 
ery that  certain  people  in  the  world  were 
willing  to  pay  money  for  such  rhymes  as  he 
could  write  bent  the  whole  course  of  his  sub- 
sequent life,  for  good  or  evil,  and  the  occa- 
sional lyric  impulse  hardened  into  a  habit 
which  has  consumed  much  of  his  time  and 
most  of  his  serious  thought  since  that  date. 
The  verses  written  to  his  mother  were  Ridin' , 
the  first  poem  in  his  first  book,  Sun  and  Saddle 
Leather,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  poems  in 
both  Sun  and  Saddle  Leather  and  Grass 
Grown  Trails  were  written  in  Arizona. 

He  remained  in  the  border  country  for  four 
years  and  finally  said  good-bye  to  the  desert 
with  regret.  He  appears  to  have  left  some- 
thing behind  to  keep  his  memory  green,  how- 
ever, for  seven  years  after  his  departure  his 
High  Chin  Bob  was  discovered  to  be  a  popu- 
lar song  among  the  cowboys  in  a  certain  sec- 
tion of  the  Southwest,  and  was  printed  in 
Poetry  as  a  true  Western  folksong  of  unknown 
authorship. 

As  Badger  Clark  says:  "Regarding  the 
High  Chin  Bob  business,  it  is  so  far  back  and, 

xv 


Preface 

with  my  usual  carelessness,  I  have  neglected 
to  preserve  any  documentary  evidence  bear- 
ing on  it,  that  I  fear  I  can't  give  you  much  of 
value.  The  thing  began  once  when  I  was 
with  an  outfit  of  ten  men  driving  seven  hun- 
dred cattle  to  the  shipping  point  after  the 
roundup,  acting  as  cook  because  the  regular 
incumbent  had  gone  to  town  and  looked  upon 
the  wine  when  it  is  red.  One  night  when  I 
was  washing  my  pots  and  kettles  I  heard  the 
boys  around  the  fire  discussing  a  cow-puncher 
over  in  the  mountains  who,  the  week  before, 
had  roped  a  bobcat  and  'drug'  it  to  death. 
The  boys  spent  some  time  swapping  expert 
opinions  on  the  incident,  so  it  stuck  in  my 
mind,  incubated,  and  eventually  hatched  out 
The  Glory  Trail. 

"Nobody  said  anything  about  the  poem, 
good  or  bad,  as  I  remember,  and  I  reckoned 
it  had  fallen  rather  flat  until,  some  years  later, 
about  three  years  ago,  I  think,  a  distant  friend 
sent  me  a  copy  of  Poetry  which  featured  High 
Chin  Bob.  I  found  a  real  native  folksong 
which  the  cowboys  were  accustomed  to  carol 
in  their  long  rides  over  the  romantic  wilder- 


xvi 


Preface 

nesses  of  the  Southwest,  a  song  like  Melchi- 
zedek,  without  father  or  mother,  which  prob- 
ably had  naturally  'just  growed7  in  the  rocky 
soil  where  it  now  flourished.  What  was  my 
amazement,  in  examining  this  literary  curi- 
osity, to  find  that  it  was  my  Glory  Trail,  with 
slight  alterations,  such  as  the  omission  of  one 
line  in  the  refrain,  such  rubbings  down  and 
chippings  off  as  might  happen  to  it  in  passing 
from  mouth  to  mouth.  I  own  that  the  'folk- 
song' version  is  in  some  points  more  striking, 
and  easy  than  my  more  labored  original,  and 
I  believe  it  is  better  known. 

"Frothingham,  you  remember,  took  it  for 
his  Songs  of  Men  and  I  recently  noticed  that 
Rupert  Hughes  mentions  High  Chin  Bob  in 
a  familiarly  friendly  way  in  his  novel,  Beauty, 
and  no  doubt  many  a  country  newspaper  in 
the  West  has  run  the  lines.  When  I  was  in 
California  a  year  or  so  ago  I  became  acquaint- 
ed with  H.  H.  Knibbs  and  I  noticed  that  he 
introduced  me  to  everybody  as  the  author  of 
High  Chin  Bob.  So,  under  another  name 
than  the  one  its  dad  bestowed  at  the  christen- 


xvii 


Preface 

ing,  this  poem  has  become  probably  the  most 
widely  known  son  of  its  father. 

"By  the  way,  I  have  never  heard  High  Chin 
Bob  sung,  and  have  some  curiosity  as  to  its 
homemade  musical  setting.  If  I  ever  meet 
some  one  who  knows  it,  I'll  make  him  warble 
it,  if  I  have  to  use  a  sixshooter." 

At  present  Badger  Clark  lives  in  Hot 
Springs,  South  Dakota.  Recently  he  has 
learned  that  it  is  easier  to  talk  to  five  hundred 
people  than  to  five,  and  that  sometimes  his  fel- 
low citizens  would  rather  hear  him  read  his 
own  verse  than  read  it  themselves,  which  fur- 
nishes a  new  source  of  pleasure  in  a  very  quiet 
life.  He  is  thirty-eight  years  old  and  unmar- 
ried. He  is  a  church  member  of  irreproach- 
able daily  walk  and  conversation  but  some- 
what uncertain  orthodoxy.  He  never  wears 
a  starched  collar  and  generally  appears  in  a 
coat  only  when  meteorological  conditions  or 
an  occasion  of  ceremony  make  it  necessary. 
He  is  six  feet  tall. 

One  who  knows  him  intimately  thus  writes 
of  the  author:  "Badger  Clark  is  loved  in  his 
own  home  town  but  is  not  worshipped  as  a 

xviii 


Preface 

celebrity,  for  which  fact,  doubtless,  no  one  is 
more  thankful  than  he  himself.  It  leaves  him 
free  to  visit  the  public  library,  take  part  in 
local  election  squabbles,  and  be  rated  as  a 
good  citizen.  He  can  sing  in  the  church  choir 
or  join  in  the  Christmas  pageant  as  one  of  the 
grown-up  children  of  the  congregation.  He 
is  free  to  use  his  alert  sense  of  humor,  and  in 
turn  is  glad  to  be  the  target  for  the  wit  of 
others.  He  can  write  verse  on  local  subjects 
and  they  will  be  printed  in  the  weekly  news- 
paper and  read  without  his  fellow  townsmen 
thinking  the  author  odd." 

The  first  edition  of  Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 
appeared  in  1915.  It  was  a  modest  little  vol- 
ume of  fifty-six  pages  bound  in  antique 
boards;  but  to  prove  how  easily  copies  were 
disposed  of,  the  publisher  wrote  this  letter  to 
the  author: 

"Do  you  happen  to  have  a  spare  copy  of 
the  first  edition  of  Sun  and  Saddle  Leather? 
Some  evil-minded  person  has  lifted  the  last 
copy  I  had. 

"I  would  be  tickled  to  death  to  send  you  a 


xix 


Preface 

copy  of  the  last  edition  to  replace,  if  you  are 
willing  to  make  a  swap." 

But  even  the  author  did  not  have  one,  for 
this  was  his  answer : 

"I'm  sorry,  but  my  last  copy  of  the  first  edi- 
tion of  Sun  and  Saddle  Leather  disappeared 
long  ago.  All  I  have  in  that  line  is  one  copy 
of  the  third  edition  that  was  so  thumbed  and 
soiled  from  using  it  to  read  out  of  in  public 
that  it  would  tempt  nobody  to  steal  it. 

"I  suppose  that  I  should  have  preserved  at 
least  one  copy  of  the  first  edition  for  its  his- 
toric interest,  but,  like  Henry  Ford,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  history  is  'mostly  bunk/ 
at  least  any  sentimental  tenderness  over  one's 
personal  history.  (So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days 
that  are  no  more.'  Beautiful,  but  bunk,  bunk, 
bunk.  Let's  rather  grow  tearfully  enthusias- 
tic over  the  fortieth  edition." 

In  1917  the  second  edition  appeared.  It 
was  illustrated  by  L.  A.  Huffman,  whose 
pictures  have  had  their  place  in  every  sub- 
sequent edition.  Back  in  1878  Mr.  Huffman 
began  to  take  photographs  with  crude  cam- 
eras which  he  made  himself.  These  same 


Preface 

photographs  were  the  first  of  the  now  famous 
Huffman  pictures  comprising  something  like 
six  thousand  historic  subjects,  beginning  with 
the  Indians  and  buffaloes  round  about  Fort 
Keogh  on  the  Yellowstone,  where  he  was  post 
photographer  in  General  Miles's  army.  Mr. 
Huffman  knows  his  West  thoroughly  and  his 
pictures  help  others  to  know  it. 

Having  his  poems  run  into  a  second  edi- 
tion did  not  make  Badger  Clark  believe  that 
he  was  straight  on  the  road  to  wealth  or  fame 
for  this  was  how  he  inscribed  a  copy: 

When  my  Pegasus  is  lopin', 

Ory-eyed  and  on  the  bust, 
And  the  cares  of  common  livin* 

Sprawl  behind  me  in  the  dust, 
And  the  breath  of  inspiration 

Comes  a  driftin'  down  the  wind, 
Then  a  finer  life  than  writin' 

Would  be  mighty  hard  to  find. 

Just  a-writin',  a-writin', 

Nothin'  I  like  half  so  well 
As  a-slingin'  ink  and  English — 

If  the  stuff  will  only  sell 

When  I'm  writin'. 


XXI 


Preface 

The  same  year  appeared  the  first  edition  of 
Grass  Grown  Trails.  William  S.  Hart  wrote : 
"May  these  trails  never  be  wholly  obliterated! 
I  love  the  West  and  them,  and  thoroughly 
appreciate  anything  which  so  beautifully  il- 
lustrates and  typifies  it  as  this  last  volume  of 
Badger  Clark's  does." 

In  1919  a  third  edition  of  Sun  and  Saddle 
Leather  was  brought  out  containing  addi- 
tional poems. 

In  1920  appeared  a  collected  edition  of 
Badger  Clark's  work,  containing  all  the  poems 
in  Sun  and  Saddle  Leather,  all  those  in  Grass 
Grown  Trails  and  nine  new  poems  hitherto 
unpublished  in  book  form. 

To  prove  that  some  authors  are  grateful, 
this  is  what  Badger  Clark  wrote  his  publisher 
when  he  had  seen  the  book: 

"I  am  now  ready  to  die.  Hitherto  I  have 
felt  that  I  have  never  done  anything  right- 
fully to  prove  up  on  my  world-without-end 
six-by-three  homestead,  but  now  I  have 
earned  that  spot  of  deep  repose.  And  now 
I  am  ready  for  the  'Sure  enwinding  arms  of 
cool-enfolding  death.'  I  have  achieved  my 

xxii 


Preface 

achievement.  I  have  done  done  it,  as  the  Tex- 
anos  used  to  say.  I  am  the  parent  of  a  child, 
a  real  child,  a  grown  child — no  mewling, 
thirty-page  infant  in  pasteboard  swaddling 
clothes,  no  gas-pipe-legged  adolescent  look- 
ing out  at  the  world  with  scared  eyes  that 
mutely  beg:  Tlease  like  me';  but  a  splendid, 
rounded-out,  mature  specimen  of  progeny, 
quietly  elegant  in  garb,  and  bearing  itself 
with  calm  confidence,  conscious  of  the  friend- 
ship and  commendation  of  a  variety  of  people, 
real  people,  distinguished  people,  people  who 
(be  it  uttered  in  confidence)  ought  to  know 
better.  And  I  am  its  dad :  bone  of  my  bone, 
flesh  of  my  flesh,  heart  of  my  heart,  it  stands 
and  nobody  can  even  pick  out  its  more  ami- 
able traits  and  say:  'That  came  from  the 
mother's  side.'  'Come,  lovely  and  soothing 
death,'  you  bleak,  bloodless,  black  humbug, 
you;  come  whenever  you're  ready.  I've 
beaten  you!  You  can't  kill  mel 

"Where  was  I?  Pardon  me!  'B'ar  with 
me,  y'r  honor,'  as  I  once  heard  a  cow  country 
lawyer  say  when  he  was  trying  to  plead  a  case 
under  a  burden  of  emotion  and  mixed  drinks. 

xxiii 


Preface 

But,  Badger,  it  has  taken  me  the  best  part  of 
fifteen  years  to  make  that  book  and  now,  as 
I  look  at  it,  I  sing  to  myself:  'By  gosh!  it  was 
worth  it!'  I  have  stood  wistfully  by  and 
watched  the  companions  of  my  youth  go  into 
real  estate  and  insurance  and  the  ministry  and 
medicine  and  standing  in  the  world,  wonder- 
ing if  I  wasn't  after  all,  a  variegated  damfool 
for  trying  to  scale  the  perpendicular  side 
which  Parnassus  presents  to  the  half-educated. 
But  to-night  I  envy  no  man  on  earth — not 
Rockefeller,  not  Doug.  Fairbanks,  not  even 
Gamaliel  Harding  as  he  leads  admiring  mil- 
lions toward  the  promised  land  of  Normalcy. 
'Blessed  is  that  man  who  has  found  his  work. 
Let  him  ask  no  other  blessedness.'  Why  Car- 
lyle,  you  dear,  crusty  old  son-of-a-gun,  you're 
dead  right,  and  when  I  meet  you  beyond  the 
last  divide  I'll  humble  myself  before  you  for 
having  thought,  sometimes,  that  those  words 
of  yours  were  mere  inspirational  bunk. 

"Well  to  return  to  coherency,  if  I  can,  the 
new  Siamese-twins  edition  of  Sun  and  Saddle 
Leather  and  Grass  Grown  Trails  is  really  a 
source  of  some  slight  satisfaction  to  me.  I 


Preface 

have  before  me  collections  of  Wilfred  Wilson 
Gibson,  and  John  Masefield  and  they,  though 
thicker,  don't  look  a  bit  better — mechanically. 
You've  done  me  proud.  Thank  you." 

The  present  sixth  edition,  we  hope,  will 
speak  for  itself. 

Dr.  W.  T.  Hornaday  said  of  the  book: 
"Some  of  the  Sun  and  Saddle  Leather  poems 
have  taken  hold  of  me  with  a  grip  that  only 
imbecility  ever  can  shake  loose.  I  have  seen 
many  poems  and  verses  come  out  of  the  wild 
portions  of  the  West;  but  these  are  the  best. 
They  are  real  poetry!" 

Sun  and  Saddle  Leather  and  Grass  Grown 
Trails  are  Western  songs,  simple  and  ringing 
and  yet  with  an  ample  vision  that  makes  them 
unique  among  poems  written  in  a  local  ver- 
nacular. The  spirit  of  them  is  eternal,  the 
spirit  of  youth  in  the  open,  and  their  back- 
ground is  "God's  Reserves,"  the  vast  reach 
of  Western  mesa  and  plain  that  will  always 
remain  free — "the  way  that  it  was  when  the 
world  was  new." 

Every  poem  carries  a  breath  of  plains, 
wind-flavored  with  a  tang  of  camp  smoke; 

XXV 


Preface 

and,  varied  as  they  are  in  tune  and  tone,  they 
do  not  contain  a  single  note  that  is  labored 
or  unnatural.  They  are  of  native  Western 
stock,  as  indigenous  to  the  soil  as  the  agile  cow 
ponies  whose  hoofs  evidently  beat  the  time 
for  their  swinging  measures;  and  it  is  this 
quality,  as  well  as  their  appealing  music,  that 
has  already  given  them  such  wide  popularity, 
East  and  West. 

That  they  were  'born  in  the  saddle  and 
written  for  love  rather  than  for  publication  is 
a  conviction  that  the  reader  of  them  can  hard- 
ly escape.  From  the  impish  merriment  of 
From  Town  to  the  deep  but  fearless  piety  of 
The  Cowboy's  Prayer,  these  songs  ring  true; 
and  are  as  healthy  as  the  big,  bright  country 
whence  they  came. 

In  prefaces  to  earlier  editions  I  made  free 
to  quote  from  the  poems  and  to  attempt  to 
point  out  their  peculiar  excellencies.  With 
modesty  unusual  in  authors,  Badger  Clark 
wrote : 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Badger  loaded  most  of 
the  odium  for  the  biographical  preface  to 
Sun  and  Saddle  Leather  onto  you  at  the  time 

xxvi 


Preface 

it  first  appeared,  and  I  suppose  you  are  re- 
sponsible for  the  extended  version  of  the  late 
edition.  It  is  said  that  modern  women  are 
deficient  in  spinning,  weaving  and  other  arts 
familiar  to  their  great  grandmothers,  but 
when  it  comes  to  the  proverbially  difficult 
stunt  of  fabricating  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's 
ear,  you  are  THERE.  Thank  you." 

R.  H. 


XXVll 


CONTENTS 

SUN  AND  SADDLE  LEATHER 

PAGE 

RIDIN' 39 

There  is  some  that  like  the  city. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  LEATHER 42 

When  my  trail  stretches  out  to  the  edge  of 
the  sky. 

A  BAD  HALF  HOUR 45 

Wonder  why  I  feel  so  restless. 
FROM  TOWN 47 

We're  the  children  of  the  open  and  we  hate 
the  haunts  o'  men. 

A   COWBOY'S   PRAYER 50 

Oh    Lord,   I've   never   lived   where   churches 
grow. 

THE  CHRISTMAS  TRAIL 52 

The  wind  is  blowin    cold  down  the  mountain 
tips  of  snow. 

A  BORDER  AFFAIR 55 

Spanish  is  the  lovin   tongue. 
THE  BUNK-HOUSE  ORCHESTRA     ....       57 

Wrangle    up    your    mouth-harps,    drag    your 
banjo  out. 

xxix 


Contents 


THE  OUTLAW 60 

When  my  rope  takes  hold  on  a  two-year-old. 
THE  LEGEND  OF  BOASTFUL  BILL  ....       62 
At  a  roundup  on  the  Gily. 

THE  TIED  MAVERICK 66 

Lay  on  the  iron!  the  tie  holds  fast. 

A  ROUNDUP  LULLABY 68 

Desert  blue  and  silver  in  the  still  moonshine. 

THE  TRAIL   o'   LOVE 71 

My  love  was  swift  and  slender. 
BACHIN' 74 

Our  lives  are  hid;  our  trails  are  strange. 
THE  GLORY  TRAIL 77 

'Way  high  up  the  Mogollons. 
BACON 81 

You're  salty  and  greasy  and  smoky  as  sin. 
THE  LOST  PARDNER 83 

/  ride  alone  and  hate  the  boys  I  meet. 
GOD'S  RESERVES 86 

One  time,  'way  back  where  the  year  marks 
fade. 

THE  MARRIED  MAN 89 

There's  an  old  pard  of  mine  that  sits  by  his 
door. 

THE  OLD  Cow  MAN 92 

/  rode  across  a  valley  range. 

XXX 


Contents 


THE   PLAINSMEN 95 

Men  of  the  older,  gentler  soil. 
THE  WESTERNER 98 

My  fathers  sleep  on  the  sunrise  plains. 
THE  WIND  is  BLOWIN' 101 

My  tired  hawse  nickers  for  his  own  home  bars. 
ON  BOOT  HILL 103 

Up  from  the  prairie  and  through  the  pines. 

GRASS   GROWN   TRAILS 

THE  COYOTE 107 

Trailing  the  last  gleam  after. 
THE  FREE  WIND 109 

/  went  and  worked  in  a  drippin   mine. 
THE  MEDICINE  MAN 112 

The  trail  is  long  to  the  bison  herd. 
THE  PIANO  AT  RED'S 114 

'Twas  a  hole  called  Red's  Saloon. 
A  RANGER 116 

He  never  made  parade  of  tooth  or  claw. 
ON  THE  DRIVE 121 

Oh,  days  whoop  by  with  swingin    lope. 
SATURDAY  NIGHT 123 

Out  from  the  ranch  on  a  Saturday  night. 
SOUTHWESTERN  JUNE 125 

Lazy  little  hawse,  it's  noon. 

xxxi 


Contents 


THE  NIGHT  HERDER 127 

I  laughed  when  the  dawn  was  a-peepin. 

HAWSE  WORK 129 

Stop!  there's  the  wild  bunch  to  right  of  the 
trail. 

HALF-BREED 132 

Fathers  with  eyes  of  ancient  ire. 
To  HER 134 

Cut  loose  a  hundred  rivers. 
THE  LOCOED  HORSE 136 

As  I  was  ridin  all  alone. 

THE  LONG  WAY     . 138 

Two  miles  of  ridin'  from  the  schoolj  without  a 
bit  of  trouble. 

FREIGHTIN' 141 

Forty  miles  from  Taggart's  store. 

THE  RAINS 144 

You've  watched  the  ground-hog's  shadow  and 
the  shiftin    weather  signs. 

THE  BORDER 148 

When  the  dreamers  of  old  Coronado. 

THE  BAD  LANDS 151 

No  fresh  green  things  in  the  Bad  Lands  bide. 

THE  SPRINGTIME  PLAINS 154 

Heart  of  me,  are  you  hearing? 

ON  THE  OREGON  TRAIL 156 

We're  the  prairie  pilgrim  crew. 

xxxii 


Contents 


THE  FOREST  RANGERS 159 

Red  is  the  arch  of  the  nightmare  sky. 
THE  YELLOW  STUFF 161 

By  the  rim  rocks  on  the  hill. 
THE  SHEEP-HERDER 163 

All  day  across  the  sagebrush  flat. 
THE  OLD  PROSPECTOR 167 

There's  a  song  in  the  canyon  below  me. 
GOD  OF  THE  OPEN 169 

God  of  the  open,  though  I  am  so  simple. 
THE  PASSING  OF  THE  TRAIL 171 

There  was  a  sunny,  savage  land. 
LATIGO  TOWN 174 

You  and  I  settled  this  section  together. 
THE  BUFFALO  TRAIL 176 

Deeply  the  buffalo  trod  it. 
THE  CAMP  FIRE'S  SONG 177 

/  reared  your  fathers  long  ago. 

NEW  POEMS 
PLAINS  BORN 183 

Westward  from  the  greener  places. 
THE  OLD  CAMP  COFFEE-POT  .       .       .       .       .185 
Old  camp-mate,  black  and  rough  to  see. 

MY  ENEMY 187 

All  mornin'  in  the  mesa's  glare. 

xxxiii 


Contents 


THE  FIGHTING  SWING 189 

Once  again  the  regiments  marching  down  the 
street. 

THE  SMOKE-BLUE  PLAINS 192 

Kissed  me  from  the  saddle  and  I  still  can  feel 
it  burning. 

OTHERS 194 

The  daybreak  comes  so  pure  and  still. 
JEFF    HART 196 

Jeff  Hart  rode  out  of  the  gulch  to  war. 
BATTLE 198 

Do  you  mind  that  old  fight  in  The  Rattles? 
IN  THE  HILLS  . 200 

The  shadow  crawls  up  canyon  walls;  the  rim 
rocks  flush  to  pink. 


xxxi  v 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Badger  Clark Frontispiece 

FACING   PACK 

When  my  feet  is  in  the  stirrups 

And  my  hawse  is  on  the  bust 40 

There's  a  time  to  be  slow  and  a  time  to  be  quick     .        66 

We  have  gathered  fightin  pointers  from  the  famous 

bronco   steed 90 

The  taut  ropes  sing  like  a  banjo  string 

And  the  latigoes  creak  and  strain      .      .      .      .      Il6 

I  wait  to  hear  him  ridin'  up  behind 142 

There's  land  where  yet  no  ditchers  dig 

Nor  cranks  experiment; 
It's  only  lovely,  free  and  big 

And  isn't  worth  a  cent 1 68 

When  the  last  free  trail  is  a  prim,  fenced  lane 
And  our  graves  grow  weeds  through  forgetful 
Mays, 

Richer  and  statelier  then  you'll  reignf 

Mother  of  men  whom  the  world  will  praise. 

And  your  sons  will  love  you  and  sigh  for  you, 

Labor  and  battle  and  die  for  you, 

But  never  the  fondest  will  understand 
The  way  we  have  loved  you,  young,  young  land     194 
XXXV 


SUN  AND  SADDLE  LEATHER 


RIDIN' 

There  is  some  that  like  the  city — 

Grass  that's  curried  smooth  and  green, 
Theaytres  and  stranglin'  collars, 

Wagons  run  by  gasoline — 
But  for  me  it's  hawse  and  saddle 

Every  day  without  a  change, 
And  a  desert  sun  a-blazin' 
On  a  hundred  miles  of  range. 
Just  a-ridin  ,  a-ridin — 

Desert  ripplin   in  the  sun, 
Mountains  blue  along  the  skyline — 
I  don't  envy  anyone 

When  I'm  rid  in' . 
When  my  feet  is  in  the  stirrups 
And  my  hawse  is  on  the  bust, 
With  his  hoofs  a-flashin'  lightnin' 

From  a  cloud  of  golden  dust, 
And  the  bawlin'  of  the  cattle 

Is  a-comin'  down  the  wind 
Then  a  finer  life  than  ridin' 
Would  be  mighty  hard  to  find. 

39 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Just  a-ridin'f  a-ridin' — 

Splittin*  long  cracks  through  the 

air, 

Stirrin'  up  a  baby  cyclone, 
Rip  pin*  up  the  prickly  pear 
As  I'm  rid  in'. 

I  don't  need  no  art  exhibits 

When  the  sunset  does  her  best, 
Paintin'  everlastin'  glory 

On  the  mountains  to  the  west 
And  your  opery  looks  foolish 

When  the  night-bird  starts  his  tune 
And  the  desert's  silver  mounted 

By  the  touches  of  the  moon. 

Just  a-ridin' ,  a-ridin', 

Who  kin  envy  kings  and  czars 
When  the  coyotes  down  the  valley 

Are  a-singin'  to  the  stars, 
If  he's  ridin'? 

When  my  earthly  trail  is  ended 

And  my  final  bacon  curled 
And  the  last  great  roundup's  finished 

At  the  Home  Ranch  of  the  world 

40 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


I  don't  want  no  harps  nor  haloes, 
Robes  nor  other  dressed  up  things — 

Let  me  ride  the  starry  ranges 
On  a  pinto  hawse  with  wings ! 

Just  a-ridin',  a-ridiri — 

Nothin*  I'd  like  half  so  well 

As  a-roundin'  up  the  sinners 

That  have  wandered  out  of  Hell, 
And  a-ridin'. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LEATHER 

When  my  trail  stretches  out  to  the  edge  of 

the  sky 

Through  the  desert  so  empty  and  bright, 
When  I'm  watchin'  the  miles  as  they  go  craw- 

lin'  by 

And  a-hopin'  I'll  get  there  by  night, 
Then  my  hawse  never  speaks  through  the  long 

sunny  day, 

But  my  saddle  he  sings  in  his  creaky  old 
way: 

"Easy — easy — easy — 
For  a  temperit  pace  ain't  a  crime. 
Let  your  mount  hit  it  steady,  but  give  him 

his  easef 
For    the    sun    hammers    hard   and   there's 

never  a  breeze. 
We  kin  get  there  in  plenty  of  time." 

When  I'm  after  some  critter  that's  hit  the 

high  lope, 
And  a-spurrin'  my  hawse  till  he  flies, 

42 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


When  I'm  watchin'  the  chances  for  throwin' 

my  rope 

And  a-winkin'  the  sweat  from  my  eyes, 
Then  the  leathers  they  squeal  with  the  lunge 

and  the  swing 

And  I  work  to  the  lievelier  tune  that  they 
sing: 

"Reach  'im!  reach  'im!  reach  'im! 
If  you  lather  your  hawse  to  the  heel! 
There's  a  time  to  be  slo<w  and  a  time  to  be 

quick; 
Never  mind  if  it's  rough  and  the  bushes  are 

thick- 
Pull  your   hat   down   and  fling   in    the 
steel/" 

When  I've  rustled  all  day  till  I'm  achin'  for 

rest 

And  I'm  ordered  a  night-guard  to  ride, 
With  the  tired  little  moon  hangin'  low  in  the 

west 

And  my  sleepiness  fightin'  my  pride, 
Then  I  nod  and  I  blink  at  the  dark  herd  be- 
low 

43 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


And  the  saddle  he  sings  as  my  hawse  paces 
slow: 

"Sleepy — sleepy — sleepy — 
We  'was  ordered  a  close  watch  to  keep, 
But  Til  sing  you  a  song  in  a  drowsy  old  key ; 
All  the  'world  is  a-snoozin    so  why  shouldn't 

we? 
Go  to  sleep,  pardner  mine,  go  to  sleep!' 


44 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


A  BAD  HALF  HOUR 

Wonder  why  I  feel  so  restless ; 

Moon  is  shinin'  still  and  bright, 
Cattle  all  is  restin'  easy, 

But  I  just  kain't  sleep  tonight. 
Ain't  no  cactus  in  my  blankets, 

Don't  know  why  they  feel  so  hard — 
'Less  it's  Warblin'  Jim  a-singin' 

"Annie  Laurie"  out  on  guard. 

"Annie  Laurie" — wish  he'd  quit  it! 

Couldn't  sleep  now  if  I  tried. 
Makes  the  night  seem  big  and  lonesome, 

And  my  throat  feels  sore  inside. 
How  my  Annie  used  to  sing  it! 

And  it  sounded  good  and  gay 
Nights  I  drove  her  home  from  dances 

When  the  east  was  turnin'  gray. 

Yes,  "her  brow  was  like  the  snowdrift" 
And  her  eyes  like  quiet  streams, 

"And  her  face" — I  still  kin  see  it 
Much  too  frequent  in  my  dreams ; 

45 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


And  her  hand  was  soft  and  trembly 
That  night  underneath  the  tree, 

When  I  couldn't  help  but  tell  her 
She  was  "all  the  world  to  me." 

But  her  folks  said  I  was  "shif'less," 

"Wild,"  "unsettled,"— they  was  right, 
For  I  leaned  to  punchin'  cattle 

And  I'm  at  it  still  tonight. 
And  she  married  young  Doc  Wilkins — 

Oh  my  Lord!  but  that  was  hard! 
Wish  that  fool  would  quit  his  singin' 

"Annie  Laurie"  out  on  guard! 

Oh,  I  just  kaint  stand  it  thinkin' 

Of  the  things  that  happened  then. 
Good  old  times,  and  all  apast  me! 

Never  seem  to  come  again — 
My  turn?    Sure.    I'll  come  a-runnin'. 

Warm  me  up  some  coffee,  pard — 
But  I'll  stop  that  Jim  from  singin' 

"Annie  Laurie"  out  on  guard. 


46 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


FROM  TOWN 

We're  the  children  of  the  open  and  we  hate 

the  haunts  o'  men, 

But  we  had  to  come  to  town  to  get  the  mail. 
And  we're  ridin'  home  at  daybreak — 'cause 

the  air  is  cooler  then — 
All  'cept  one  of  us  that  stopped  behind  in 

jail. 
Shorty's  nose  won't  bear  paradin',  Bill's  off 

eye  is  darkly  fadin', 

All  our  toilets  show  a  touch  of  disarray, 
For  we  found  that  city  life  is  a  constant  round 

of  strife 

And  we  ain't  the  breed  for  shyin'  from  a 
fray. 

Chant  your  warwhoop,  pardners  dearf  while 

the  east  turns  pale  with  fear 
And  the  chaparral  is  tremblin'  all  aroun' 
For  we're  wicked  to  the  marrer;  we're  a  mid- 
night dream  of  terror 

When  we're  ridin   up  the  rocky  trail  from 
town! 

47 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


We   acquired   our   hasty   temper   from   our 

friend,  the  centipede. 
From  the  rattlesnake  we  learnt  to  guard  our 

rights. 
We  have  gathered  fightin'  pointers  from  the 

famous  bronco  steed 
And  the  bobcat  teached  us  reppertee  that 

bites. 
So  when  some  high-collared  herrin'  jeered  the 

garb  that  I  was  wearin' 
'Twasn't  long  till  we  had  got  where  talkin' 

ends, 
And  he  et  his  illbred  chat,  with  a  sauce  of 

derby  hat, 
While  my  merry  pardners  entertained  his 

friends. 
Sing  'er  out,  my  buckeroos!    Let  the  desert 

hear  the  news. 
Tell    the    stars    the    way    <we    rubbed    the 

haughty  down. 
We're  the  fiercest  wolves  a-prowlin'  and  it's 

just  our  night  for  howlin' 
When  we're  rid  in'  up  the  rocky  trail  from 
town. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Since  the  days  that  Lot  and  Abram  split  the 

Jordan  range  in  halves, 
Just  to  fix  it  so  their  punchers  wouldn't 

fight, 
Since  old  Jacob  skinned  his  dad-in-law  for 

six  years'  crop  of  calves 
And  then  hit  the  trail  for  Canaan  in  the 

night, 
There  has  been  a  taste  for  battle  'mong  the 

men  that  follow  cattle 
And  a  love  of  doin'  things  that's  wild  and 

strange, 
And  the  warmth  of  Laban's  words  when  he 

missed  his  speckled  herds 
Still  is  useful  in  the  language  of  the  range. 

Sing  'er  out,  my  bold  coyotes!  leather  fists  and 

leather  throats, 
For  we  wear  the  brand  of  Ishm'el  like  a 

crown. 

We're  the  sons  o'  desolation,  we're  the  out- 
laws of  creation — 

Ee — yowl  a-ridin'  up  the  rocky  trail  from 
town! 


49 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


A  COWBOY'S   PRAYER 

(Written   for  Mother) 

Oh  Lord,  I've  never  lived  where  churches 

grow. 

I  love  creation  better  as  it  stood 
That  day  You  finished  it  so  long  ago 

And  looked  upon  Your  work  and  called  it 

good. 

I  know  that  others  find  You  in  the  light 
That's  sifted  down  through  tinted  window 

panes, 

And  yet  I  seem  to  feel  You  near  tonight 
In  this  dim,  quiet  starlight  on  the  plains. 

I  thank  You,  Lord,  that  I  am  placed  so  well, 

That  You  have  made  my  freedom  so  com- 
plete; 
That  I'm  no  slave  of  whistle,  clock  or  bell, 

Nor  weak-eyed  prisoner  of  wall  and  street. 
Just  let  me  live  my  life  as  I've  begun 

And  give  me  work  that's  open  to  the  sky; 
Make  me  a  pardner  of  the  wind  and  sun, 

And  I  won't  ask  a  life  that's  soft  or  high. 

50 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Let  me  be  easy  on  the  man  that's  down ; 

Let  me  be  square  and  generous  with  all. 
I'm  careless  sometimes,  Lord,  when  I'm  in 
town, 

But  never  let  'em  say  I'm  mean  or  small  1 
Make  me  as  big  and  open  as  the  plains, 

As  honest  as  the  hawse  between  my  knees, 
Clean  as  the  wind  that  blows  behind  the  rains, 

Free  as  the  hawk  that  circles  down  the 
breeze! 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  if  sometimes  I  forget. 

You  know  about  the  reasons  that  are  hid. 
You  understand  the  things  that  gall  and  fret; 

You  know  me  better  than  my  mother  did. 
Just  keep  an  eye  on  all  that's  done  and  said 

And    right  me,   sometimes,   when    I   turn 

aside, 
And  guide  me  on  the  long,  dim  trail  ahead 

That  stretches  upward  toward  the  Great 
Divide. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE   CHRISTMAS  TRAIL 
The  wind  is  blowin'  cold  down  the  mountain 

tips  of  snow 
And   'cross  the   ranges   layin'   brown   and 

dead; 

It's  cryin'  through  the  valley  trees  that  wear 
the  mistletoe  [head. 

And  mournin'  with  the  gray  clouds  over- 
Yet   it's   sweet  with   the   beat   of    my   little 
hawse's  feet  [blue, 

And  I  whistle  like  the  air  was  warm  and 
For  I'm  ridin'  up  the  Christmas  trail  to  you, 

Old  folks, 
I'm  a-ridin'  up  the  Christmas  trail  to  you. 

Oh,  mebbe  it  was  good  when  the  whinny  of 

the  Spring 

Had  wheedled  me  to  hoppin'  of  the  bars, 
And  livin'  in  the  shadow  of  a  sailin'  buz- 
zard's wing 

And  sleepin'  underneath  a  roof  of  stars. 
But  the  bright  campfire  light  only  dances  for 
a  night, 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


While  the  home-fire  burns  forever  clear 

and  true, 
So  'round  the  year  I  circle  back  to  you, 

Old  folks, 
'Round  the  rovin'  year  I  circle  back  to  you. 

Oh,   mebbe  it  was  good  when  the   reckless 

Summer  sun 

Had  shot  a  charge  of  fire  through  my  veins, 
And  I  milled  around  the  whiskey  and  the 

fightin'  and  the  fun 
'Mong  the  other  mav'ricks  drifted  from  the 

plains. 
Ay,  the  pot  bubbled  hot,  while  you  reckoned 

I'd  forgot, 
And  the  devil  smacked  the  young  blood  in 

his  stew, 
Yet  I'm  lovin'  every  mile  that's  nearer  you, 

Good  folks, 
Lovin'  every  blessed  mile  that's  nearer  you. 

Oh,  mebbe  it  was  good  at  the  roundup  in  the 

Fall 

When  the  clouds  of  bawlin'  dust  before  us 
ran, 

S3 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


And    the    pride    of    rope    and    saddle    was 

a-drivin'  of  us  all 
To  a  stretch  of  nerve  and  muscle,  man  and 

man. 
But  the  pride  sort  of  died  when  the  man  got 

weary  eyed ; 

'Twas  a  sleepy  boy  that  rode  the  night- 
guard  through, 
And  he  dreamed  himself  along  a  trail  to  you, 

Old  folks, 

Dreamed  himself  along  a  happy  trail  to 
you. 

The  coyote's  Winter  howl  cuts  the  dusk  be- 
hind the  hill, 

But  the  ranch's  shinin'  window  I  kin  see, 
And  though  I  don't  deserve  it  and,  I  reckon, 

never  will, 
There'll  be  room  beside  the  fire  kep'  for 

me. 
Skimp  my  plate  'cause  I'm  late.    Let  me  hit 

the  old  kid  gait, 

For  tonight  I'm  stumblin'  tired  of  the  new 
And  I'm  ridin'  up  the  Christmas  trail  to  you, 

Old  folks, 
I'm  a-ridin'  up  the  Christmas  trail  to  you. 

54 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


A  BORDER  AFFAIR  . 

Spanish  is  the  lovin'  tongue, 
Soft  as  music,  light  as  spray. 

'Twas  a  girl  I  learnt  it  from, 
Livin'  down  Sonora  way. 

I  don't  look  much  like  a  lover, 

Yet  I  say  her  love  words  over 

Often  when  I'm  all  alone — 
"Mi  amor,  mi  corazon" 

Nights  when  she  knew  where  I'd  ride 

She  would  listen  for  my  spurs, 
Fling  the  big  door  open  wide, 

Raise  them  laughin'  eyes  of  her 
And  my  heart  would  nigh  stop  beatin' 
When  I  heard  her  tender  greeting', 

Whispered  soft  for  me  alone 

"Mi  amor!  mi  corazon/" 

Moonlight  in  the  patio, 

Old  Senora  noddin'  near, 
Me  and  Juana  talkin'  low 

So  the  Madre  couldn't  hear — 
How  those  hours  would  go  a-flyin'I 
And  too  soon  I'd  hear  her  sighin' 

55 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


In  her  little  sorry  tone — 
"Adios,  ml  corazoni" 

But  one  time  I  had  to  fly 

For  a  foolish  gamblin'  fight, 
And  we  said  a  swift  goodbye 

In  that  black,  unlucky  night. 
When  I'd  loosed  her  arms  from  clingin' 
With  her  words  the  hoofs  kep'  ringin' 

As  I  galloped  north  alone — 

"Adios,  mi  corazoni" 

Never  seen  her  since  that  night, 

I  kain't  cross  the  Line,  you  know. 
She  was  Mex  and  I  was  white; 

Like  as  not  it's  better  so. 
Yet  I've  always  sort  of  missed  her 
Since  that  last  wild  night  I  kissed  her, 

Left  her  heart  and  lost  my  own — 

"Adios,  mi  corazoni" 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  BUNK-HOUSE  ORCHESTRA 

Wrangle  up  your  mouth-harps,   drag  your 

banjo  out, 
Tune  your  old  guitarra  till  she  twangs  right 

stout, 
For  the  snow  is  on  the  mountains  and  the 

wind  is  on  the  plain, 
But  we'll  cut  the  chimney's  moanin'  with  a 

livelier  refrain. 

Shinin'    'dobe   fireplace,    shadows    on    the 

wall — 
(See  old  Shorty's  friv'lous  toes  a-twitchin 

at  the  call:) 
It's  the  best  grand  high  that  there  is  within 

the  law 
When  seven  jolly  punchers  tackle  "Turkey 

in  the  Straw." 

Freezy  was  the  day's  ride,  lengthy  was  the 

trail, 
Ev'ry  steer  was  haughty  with  a  high  arched 

tail, 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


But  we  held  'em  and  we  shoved  'em,  for  our 
longin'  hearts  were  tried 

By  a  yearnin'  for  tobacker  and  our  dear  fire- 
side. 

Swing  'er  into  stop-time,  don't  you  let  'er 
droop! 

(You're  about  as  tuneful  as  a  coyote  with 
the  croup!) 

Ay,  the  cold  wind  bit  when  we  drifted 
down  the  draw, 

But  <we  drifted  on  to  comfort  and  to  "Tur- 
key in  the  Straw." 

Snarlin'  when  the  rain  whipped,  cussin'  at  the 

ford— 

Ev'ry  mile  of  twenty  was  a  long  discord, 
But  the  night  is  brimmin'  music  and  its  glory 

is  complete 
When  the  eye  is  razzle-dazzled  by  the  flip  o' 

Shorty's  feet! 

Snappy  for  the  dance,  now,  till  she  up  and 

shoots! 
(Don't  he  beat  the  devil's  wife  for  jig  gin' 

in  'is  boots?) 

58 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Shorty  got  throwed  high  and  we  laughed 

till  he  was  raw, 
But  tonight   he's   done  forgot  it  prancin 

"Turkey  in  the  Straw" 

Rainy  dark  or  firelight,  bacon  rind  or  pie, 
Livin'  is  a  luxury  that  don't  come  high; 
Oh,  be  happy  and  onruly  while  our  years  and 

luck  allow, 
For  we  all  must  die  or  marry  less  than  forty 

years  from  now! 

Lively   on   the  last   turn!  lope  'er  to   the 

death! 
(Reddy's   soul   is   will  in'    but    he's   gettinf 

short  o'  breath.) 
Ay,  the  storm  wind  sings  and  old  trouble 

sucks  his  paw 
When  we  have  an  hour  of  firelight  set  to 

(fTurkey  in  the  Straw." 


59 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  OUTLAW 

When  my  rope  takes  hold  on  a  two-year-old, 

By  the  foot  or  the  neck  or  the  horn, 
He  kin  plunge  and  fight  till  his  eyes  go  white 

But  I'll  throw  him  as  sure  as  you're  born. 
Though  the  taut  ropes  sing  like  a  banjo  string 

And  the  latigoes  creak  and  strain, 
Yet  I  got  no  fear  of  an  outlaw  steer 

And  I'll  tumble  him  on  the  plain. 

For  a  man  is  a  man,  but  a  steer  is  a  beast, 

And  the  man  is  the  boss  of  the  herd, 
And  each  of  the  bunch,  from  the  biggest 

to  least, 

Must   come  down  when   he  says   the 
word. 

When  my  leg  swings  'cross  on  an  outlaw 
hawse 

And  my  spurs  clinch  into  his  hide, 
He  kin  r'ar  and  pitch  over  hill  and  ditch, 

But  wherever  he  goes  I'll  ride. 
Let  'im  spin  and  flop  like  a  crazy  top 

Or  flit  like  a  wind-whipped  smoke, 
But  he'll  know  the  feel  of  my  rowelled  heel 

Till  he's  happy  to  own  he's  broke. 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


For  a  man  is  a  man  and  a  hawse  is  a  brute, 
And  the  hawse  may  be  prince  of  his 

clan 
But  he'll  bow  to  the  bit  and  the  steel-shod 

boot 
And  own  that  his  boss  is  the  man. 

When  the  devil  at  rest  underneath  my  vest 

Gets  up  and  begins  to  paw 
And  my  hot  tongue  strains  at  its  bridle  reins, 

Then  I  tackle  the  real  outlaw. 
When  I  get  plumb  riled  and  my  sense  goes 
wild 

And  my  temper  is  fractious  growed, 
If  he'll  hump  his  neck  just  a  triflin'  speck, 

Then  it's  dollars  to  dimes  Fm  throwed. 

For  a  man  is  a  man,  but  he's  partly  a 

beast. 

He  kin  brag  till  he  makes  you  deaf, 
But  the  one  lone  brute,  from  the  west  to  the 

east, 
That  he  hain't  quite  break  is  himse'f. 


61 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BOASTFUL  BILL 

At  a  roundup  on  the  Gily, 

One  sweet  mornin'  long  ago, 
Ten  of  us  was  throwed  right  freely 

By  a  hawse  from  Idaho. 
And  we  thought  he'd  go  a-beggin' 

For  a  man  to  break  his  pride 
Till,  a-hitchin'  up  one  leggin', 

Boastful  Bill  cut  loose  and  cried — 

"I'm  a  on'ry  proposition  for  to  hurt; 
I  fulfill    my    earthly    mission   with   a 

quirt; 

I  kin  ride  the  highest  liver 
'Tween  the  Gulf  and  Powder  River, 
And  Til  break  this  thing  as  easy  as  I'd 
flirt." 

So  Bill  climbed  the  Northern  Fury 

And  they  mangled  up  the  air 
Till  a  native  of  Missouri 

Would  have  owned  his  brag  was  fair. 
Though  the  plunges  kep'  him  reelin' 

And  the  wind  it  flapped  his  shirt, 
Loud  above  the  hawse's  squealin' 

We  could  hear  our  friend  assert 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


"I'm  the  one  to  take  such  rakin's  as  a 

joke. 
Some  one  hand  me  up  the  makin's  of 

a  smoke! 
If     you     think     my     fame     needs 

bright' nin' 

W'y  Til  rope  a  streak  of  lightnin' 
And  I'll  cinch  'im  up  and  spur  'im  till 
he's  broke!' 

Then  one  caper  of  repulsion 

Broke  that  hawse's  back  in  two. 
Cinches  snapped  in  the  convulsion; 

Skyward  man  and  saddle  flew. 
Up  he  mounted,  never  lagging 

While   we    watched    him    through    our 

tears, 
And  his  last  thin  bit  of  braggin' 

Came  a-droppin'  to  our  ears. 

"If  you'd  ever  watched  my  habits  very 
close 

You  would  know  I've  broke  suck  rab- 
bits by  the  gross. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


I  have  kep'  my  talent  hidin' ; 
I'm  too  good  for  earthly  ridin' 
And  I'm  off  to  bust  the  lightnin's, — 
Adiosl" 

Years  have  gone  since  that  ascension. 

Boastful  Bill  ain't  never  lit, 
So  we  reckon  that  he's  wrenchin' 

Some  celestial  outlaw's  bit. 
When  the  night  rain  beats  our  slickers 

And  the  wind  is  swift  and  stout 
And  the  lightnin'  flares  and  flickers, 

We  kin  sometimes  hear  him  shout — 

"I'm  a  bronco-twist  in'  wonder  on  the 

fly; 

I'm  the  ridin'  son-of-thunder  of  the  sky. 
Hi!  you  earthlin's,  shut  your  win- 
ders 

While  we're  rippin'  clouds  to  flind- 
ers. 

If  this  blue-eyed  darlin'  kicks  at  you, 
you  die!" 

Stardust  on  his  chaps  and  saddle, 
Scornful  still  of  jar  and  jolt, 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


He'll  come  back  some  day,  astraddle 

Of  a  bald-faced  thunderbolt. 
And  the  thin-skinned  generation 

Of  that  dim  and  distant  day 
Sure  will  stare  with  admiration 

When  they  hear  old  Boastful  say — 

"I  was  first,  as  old  rawhiders  all  con- 
fessed. 
Now  I'm  last  of  all  rough  riders,  and 

the  best. 

Huh,  you  soft  and  dainty  floaters. 
With  your  a'roplanes  and  motors  — 
Huh!  are  you  the  great  grandchildren 
of  the  Westl" 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  TIED  MAVERICK 

Lay  on  the  iron !  the  tie  holds  fast 

And  my  wild  record  closes. 
This  maverick  is  down  at  last 

Just  roped  and  tied  with  roses. 
And  one  small  girl's  to  blame  for  it, 
Yet  I  don't  fight  with  shame  for  it — 
Lay  on  the  iron;  I'm  game  for  it, 

Just  roped  and  tied  with  roses. 

I  loped  among  the  wildest  band 

Of  saddle-hatin'  winners — 
Gay  colts  that  never  felt  a  brand 

And  scarred  old  outlaw  sinners. 
The  wind  was  rein  and  guide  to  us ; 
The  world  was  pasture  wide  to  us 
And  our  wild  name  was  pride  to  us — 

High  headed  bronco  sinners! 

So,  loose  and  light  we  raced  and  fought 

And  every  range  we  tasted, 
But  now,  since  I'm  corralled  and  caught, 

I  know  them  days  were  wasted. 

66 


Huffman-Stevenson. 


'There's  a  time   to   be  slow  and  a  time   to   be  quick.' 


See  page  43 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


From  now,  the  all-day  gait  for  me, 
The  trail  that's  hard  but  straight  for  me, 
For  down  that  trail,  who'll  wait  for  me! 
Ay!  them  old  days  were  wasted! 

But  though  I'm  broke,  I'll  never  be 

A  saddle-marked  old  groaner, 
For  never  worthless  bronc  like  me 

Got  such  a  gentle  owner. 
There  could  be  colt  days  glad  as  mine 
Or  outlaw  runs  as  mad  as  mine 
Or  rope-flung  falls  as  bad  as  mine, 
But  never  such  an  owner. 

Lay  on  the  iron,  and  lay  it  red! 

I'll  take  it  kind  and  clever. 
Who  wouldn't  hold  a  prouder  head 

To  wear  that  mark  forever? 
I'll  never  break  and  stray  from  her; 
I'd  starve  and  die  away  from  her. 
Lay  on  the  iron — it's  play  from  her — 

And  brand  me  hers  forever! 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


A  ROUNDUP  LULLABY 

Desert  blue  and  silver  in  the  still  moonshine, 
Coyote  yappin'  lazy  on  the  hill, 

Sleepy  winks  of  lightnin'  down  the  far  sky 

line, 
Time  for  millin'  cattle  to  be  still. 

So — of  now,  the  lightnings  far  away, 
The  coyote's  nothin'  skeery; 
He's  singinf  to  his  dearie — 

Hee — ya,  tammalalleday! 

Settle  down,  you  cattle,  till  the  mornin'. 

Nothin'  out  the  hazy  range  that  you  folks 

need, 

Nothin'  we  kin  see  to  take  your  eye. 
Yet  we  got  to  watch  you  or  you'd  all  stam- 
pede, 
Plungin'  down  some  royo  bank  to  die. 

So — o,  now,  for  still  the  shadows  stay; 

The  moon  is  slow  and  steady; 

The  sun  comes  when  he's  ready. 
Hee — ya,  tammalalleday! 

No  use  runnin'  out  to  meet  the  mornin'. 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Cows  and  men  are  foolish  when  the  light 

grows  dim, 

Dreamin'  of  a  land  too  far  to  see. 
There,  you  dream,  is  wavin'  grass  and  streams 

that  brim 
And  it  often  seems  the  same  to  me. 

So — ot  now,  for  dreams  they  never  pay. 
The  dust  it  keeps  us  blinking 
We're  seven  miles  from  drinkin'. 

Hee — ya,  tammal  ailed  ay! 

But  we  got  to  stand  it  till  the  morninf. 

Mostly  it's  a  moonlight  world  our  trail  winds 
through. 

Kain't  see  much  beyond  our  saddle  horns. 
Always  far  away  is  misty  silver-blue; 

Always  underfoot  it's  rocks  and  thorns. 

So — of  now.    It  must  be  this  away — 
The  lonesome  owl  a-callin', 
The  mournful  coyote  squallin'. 

Hee — ya,  tammal  ailed  ay! 

Mocking-birds    don't    sing    until    the 


mornin. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Always  seein'  'wayoff  dreams  of  silver-blue, 
Always  feelin'  thorns  that  stab  and  sting. 

Yet  stampedin'  never  made  a  dream  come 

true, 
So  I  ride  around  myself  and  sing, 

So — o,  now,  a  man  has  got  to  stay, 
A-likin'  or  a-hatinf, 
But  ivorkin'  on  and  ivaitin'. 

Hee — ya,  tammal  ailed  ay! 

All  of  us  are  <waitm  for  the  mornin*. 


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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  TRAIL  O'  LOVE 

My  love  was  swift  and  slender 

As  an  antelope  at  play, 
And  her  eyes  were  gray  and  tender 

As  the  east  at  break  o'  day, 
And  I  sure  was  shaky  hearted 

And  her  flower  face  was  pale 
On  that  silver  night  we  parted, 

When  I  sang  along  the  trail : 

Forever — forever  — 

Oh,  moon  above  the  pine, 
Like  the  matin   birds  in  Springtime, 

I  will  twitter  while  you  shine. 
Rich  as  ore  with  gold  a-glowin', 
Sweet  as  sparklin   springs  a-flowin* , 
Strong  as  redwoods  ever  growin', 
So  will  be  this  love  o'  mine. 

I  rode  across  the  river 

And  beyond  the  far  divide, 
Till  the  echo  of  "forever" 

Staggered  faint  behind  and  died. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


For  the  long  trail  smiled  and  beckoned 
And  the  free  wind  blowed  so  sweet, 

That  life's  gayest  tune,  I  reckoned, 
Was  my  hawse's  ringin'  feet. 

Forever — forever — 

Oh,  stars,  look  down  and  sigh, 
For  a  poison  spring  will  sparkle 

And  the  trustin'  drinker  die. 
And  a  rovin'  bird  will  twitter 
And  a  worthless  rock  will  glitter 
And  a  maiden's  love  is  bitter 

When  the  man's  is  proved  a  lie. 

Last  the  rover's  circle  guidin' 

Brought  me  where  I  used  to  be, 
And  I  met  her,  gaily  ridin' 

With  a  smarter  man  than  me. 
Then  I  raised  my  dusty  cover 

But  she  didn't  see  nor  hear, 
So  I  hummed  the  old  tune  over, 

Laughin'  in  my  hawse's  ear: 

Forever — forever — 

Oh,  sun,  look  down  and  smile 

72 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


If  the  snow/lake  specks  the  desert 
Or  the  yucca  blooms  awhile. 

Ay!  what  gloom  the  mountain  covers 

Where  the  driftin'  clouds  shade  hov- 
ers! 

Ay!  the  trail  o'  parted  loversf 
Where  "forever"  lasts  a  mile! 


73 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


BACHIN' 

Our  lives  are  hid;  our  trails  are  strange; 

We're  scattered  through  the  West 
In  canyon  cool,  on  blistered  range 

Or  windy  mountain  crest. 
Wherever  Nature  drops  her  ears 

And  bares  her  claws  to  scratch, 
From  Yuma  to  the  north  frontiers, 

You'll  likely  find  the  bach', 
You  will, 

The  shy  and  sober  bach' ! 

Our  days  are  sun  and  storm  and  mist, 

The  same  as  any  life, 
Except  that  in  our  trouble  list 

We  never  count  a  wife. 
Each  has  a  reason  why  he's  lone, 

But  keeps  it  'neath  his  hat; 
Or,  if  he's  got  to  tell  some  one, 

Confides  it  to  his  cat, 
He  does, 

Just  tells  it  to  his  cat. 

74 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


We're  young  or  old  or  slow  or  fast, 

But  all  plumb  versatyle. 
The  mighty  bach'  that  fires  the  blast 

Kin  serve  up  beans  in  style. 
The  bach'  that  ropes  the  plungin'  cows 

Kin  mix  the  biscuits  true — 
We  earn  our  grub  by  drippin'  brows 

And  cook  it  by  'em  too, 
We  do, 

We  cook  it  by  'em  too. 

We  like  to  breathe  unbranded  air, 

Be  free  of  foot  and  mind, 
And  go  or  stay,  or  sing  or  swear, 

Whichever  we're  inclined. 
An  appetite,  a  conscience  clear, 

A  pipe  that's  rich  and  old 
Are  loves  that  always  bless  and  cheer 

And  never  cry  nor  scold, 
They  don't. 

They  never  cry  nor  scold. 

Old  Adam  bached  some  ages  back 
And  smoked  his  pipe  so  free, 

75 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


A-loafin'  in  a  palm-leaf  shack 

Beneath  a  mango  tree. 
He'd  best  have  stuck  to  bachin'  ways, 

And  scripture  proves  the  same, 
For  Adam's  only  happy  days 

Was  'fore  the  woman  came, 
They  was, 

All  'fore  the  woman  came. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  GLORY  TRAIL 
(High-Chin  Bob) 

'Way  high  up  the  Mogollons, 

Among  the  mountain  tops, 
A  lion  cleaned  a  yearlin's  bones 

And  licked  his  thankful  chops, 
When  on  the  picture  who  should  ride, 

A-trippin'  down  a  slope, 
But  High-Chin  Bob,  with  sinful  pride 

And  mav'rick  hungry  rope. 

"Oh,  glory  be  to  me"  says  he, 
"And  fame's  unfadin  flowers! 

All  meddlin'  hands  are  far  away; 

I  ride  my  good  top-hawse  today 

And  I'm  top-rope  of  the  Lazy  J — 
Hi  I  kitty  cat,  you're  ours!" 

That  lion  licked  his  paw  so  brown 
And  dreamed  soft  dreams  of  veal — 

And  then  the  circlin'  loop  sung  down 
And  roped  him  'round  his  meal. 

He  yowled  quick  fury  to  the  world 
Till  all  the  hills  yelled  back; 

77 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


The  top-hawse  gave  a  snort  and  whirled 
And  Bob  caught  up  the  slack. 

"Ohf  glory  be  to  me"  laughs  he. 

"We  hit  the  glory  trail. 
No  human  man  as  I  have  read 
Darst  loop  a  ragin'  lion's  head, 
Nor  ever  hawse  could  drag  one  dead 
Until  we  told  the  tale" 

'Way  high  up  the  Mogollons 

That  top-hawse  done  his  best, 
Through  whippin'  brush  and  rattlin'  stones, 

From  canyon-floor  to  crest. 
But  ever  when  Bob  turned  and  hoped 

A  limp  remains  to  find, 
A  red-eyed  lion,  belly  roped 

But  healthy,  loped  behind. 

"Oh,  glory  be  to  me"  grunts  he. 

"This  glory  trail  is  rough, 
Yet  even  till  the  Judgment  Morn 
I'll  keep  this  dally  'round  the  horn, 
For  never  any  hero  born 

Could  stoop  to  holler:  '  'Nuffl'  " 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Three  suns  had  rode  their  circle  home 

Beyond  the  desert's  rim, 
And  turned  their  star-herds  loose  to  roam 

The  ranges  high  and  dim; 
Yet  up  and  down  and  'round  and  'cross 

Bob  pounded,  weak  and  wan, 
For  pride  still  glued  him  to  his  hawse 

And  glory  drove  him  on. 

"Oh,  glory  be  to  me"  sighs  he. 

"He  hain't  be  drug  to  death, 
But  now  I  know  beyond  a  doubt 
Them  heroes  I  have  read  about 
Was  only  fools  that  stuck  it  out 

To  end  of  mortal  breath" 

'Way  high  up  the  Mogollons 

A  prospect  man  did  swear 
That  moon  dreams  melted  down  his  bones 

And  hoisted  up  his  hair: 
A  ribby  cow-hawse  thundered  by, 

A  Iton  trailed  along, 
A  rider,  ga'nt  but  chin  on  high, 

Yelled  out  a  crazy  song. 

79 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


"Oh,  glory  be  to  me!"  cries  he, 

"And  to  my  noble  noose/ 
Oh,  stranger,  tell  my  pards  below 
I  took  a  rampin'  dream  in  tow, 
And  if  I  never  lay  him  low, 
I'll  never  turn  him  loose!" 


80 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


BACON 

You're  salty  and  greasy  and  smoky  as  sin 

But  of  all  grub  we  love  you  the  best. 
You  stuck  to  us  closer  than  nighest  of  kin 

And  helped  us  win  out  in  the  West, 
You  froze  with  us  up  on  the  Laramie  trail; 

You  sweat  with  us  down  at  Tucson ; 
When  Injun  was  painted  and  white  man  was 

pale 

You  nerved  us  to  grip  our  last  chance  by  the 
tail 

And  load  up  our  Colts  and  hang  on. 

You've  sizzled  by  mountain  and  mesa  and 

plain 

Over  campfires  of  sagebrush  and  oak; 
The  breezes  that  blow  from  the  Platte  to  the 

main 

Have  carried  your  savory  smoke. 
You're  friendly  to  miner  or  puncher  or  priest; 

You're  as  good  in  December  as  May; 
You  always  came  in  when  the  fresh  meat  had 
ceased 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


And  the  rough  course  of  empire  to  westward 

was  greased 
By  the  bacon  we  fried  on  the  way. 

We've  said  that  you  weren't  fit  for  white  men 

to  eat 

And  your  virtues  we  often  forget. 
We've  called  you  by  names  that  I  darsn't 

repeat, 

But  we  love  you  and  swear  by  you  yet. 
Here's  to  you,  old  bacon,  fat,  lean  streak  and 

rin', 

All  the  westerners  join  in  the  toast, 
From  mesquite  and  yucca  to  sagebrush  and 

pine, 

From  Canada  down  to  the  Mexican  Line, 
From  Omaha  out  to  the  coast! 


82 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  LOST  PARDNER 

I  ride  alone  and  hate  the  boys  I  meet. 

Today,  some  way,  their  laughin'  hurts  me 

so. 
I  hate  the  mockin'-birds  in  the  mesquite — 

And  yet  I  liked  'em  just  a  week  ago. 
I  hate  the  steady  sun  that  glares,  and  glares! 

The  bird  songs  make  me  sore. 
I  seem  the  only  thing  on  earth  that  cares 

'Cause  Al  ain't  here  no  more! 

'Twas  just  a  stumblin'  hawse,  a  tangled  spur — 

And,  when  I  raised  him  up  so  limp  and 

weak, 
One  look  before  his  eyes  begun  to  blur 

And  then — the  blood  that  wouldn't  let  'im 

speak! 
And  him  so  strong,  and  yet  so  quick  he  died, 

And  after  year  on  year 
When  we  had  always  trailed  it  side  by  side, 

He  went — and  left  me  here! 

"83 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


We  loved  each  other  in  the  way  men  do 

And  never  spoke  about  it,  Al  and  me, 
But  we  both  knowed,  and  knowin'  it  so  true 

Was  more  than  any  woman's  kiss  could  be. 
We  knowed — and  if  the  way  was  smooth  or 
rough, 

The  weather  shine  or  pour, 
While    I    had    him    the    rest   seemed    good 
enough — 

But  he  ain't  here  no  more! 

What  is  there  out  beyond  the  last  divide? 

Seems  like  that  country  must  be  cold  and 

dim. 
He'd  miss  the  sunny  range  he  used  to  ride, 

And  he'd  miss  me,  the  same  as  I  do  him. 
It's  no  use  thinkin' — all  I'd  think  or  say 

Could  never  make  it  clear. 
Out  that  dim  trail  that  only  leads  one  way 

He's  gone — and  left  me  here! 

The  range  is  empty  and  the  trails  are  blind, 
And  I  don't  seem  but  half  myself  today. 
I  wait  to  hear  him  ridin'  up  behind 

"84 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


And  feel  his  knee  rub  mine  the  good  old 

way. 
He's  dead — and  what  that  means  no  man  kin 

tell. 

Some  call  it  "gone  before." 
Where?     I  don't  know,  but  God!     I  know 

so  well 
That  he  ain't  here  no  more! 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


GOD'S  RESERVES 

One  time,  'way  back  where  the  year  marks 

fade, 

God  said :  "I  see  I  must  lose  my  West, 
The  prettiest  part  of  the  world  I  made, 

The  place  where  I've  always  come  to  rest, 
For  the  White  Man  grows  till  he  fights  for 

bread 
And  he  begs  and  prays  for  a  chance  to  spread. 

"Yet  I  won't  give  all  of  my  last  retreat; 

I'll  help  him  to  fight  his  long  trail  through, 
But  I'll  keep  some  land  from  his  field  and 

street 
The  way  that  it  was  when  the  world  was 

new. 

He'll  cry  for  it  all,  for  that's  his  way, 
And  yet  he  may  understand  some  day." 

And  so,  from  the  painted  Bad  Lands,  'way 
To  the  sun-beat  home  of  the  'Pache  kin, 

God  stripped  some  places  to  sand  and  clay 
And  dried  up  the  beds  where  the  streams 
had  been. 

86 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


He  marked   His   reserves  with   these   plain 

signs 

And  stationed  His  rangers  to  guard  the  lines. 
Then   the   White    Man   came,    as   the   East 

growed  old, 

And  blazed  his  trail  with  the  wreck  of  war. 
He  riled  the  rivers  to  hunt  for  gold 

And  found  the  stuff  he  was  lookin'  for; 
Then  he  trampled  the  Injun  trails  to  ruts 
And  gnashed  through  the  hills  with  railroad 

cuts. 

He  flung  out  his  barb-wire  fences  wide 
And  plowed  up  the  ground  where  the  grass 

was  high. 
He  stripped  off  the  trees  from  the  mountain 

side 
And  ground  out  his  ore  where  the  streams 

run  by, 

Till  last  came  the  cities,  with  smoke  and  roar, 
And  the  White  Man  was  feelin'  at  home  once 

more. 

But  Barrenness,   Loneliness,  suchlike  things 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


That  gall  and  grate  on  the  White  Man's 

nerves, 
Was  the  rangers  that  camped  by  the  bitter 

springs 

And  guarded  the  lines  of  God's  reserves. 
So  the  folks  all  shy  from  the  desert  land, 
'Cept  mebbe  a  few  that  kin  understand. 

There  the  world's  the  same  as  the  day  'twas 
new, 

With  the  land  as  clean  as  the  smokeless  sky 
And  never  a  noise  as  the  years  have  flew, 

But  the  sound  of  the  warm  wind  driftin'  by; 
And  there,  alone,  with  the  man's  world  far, 
There's  a  chance  to  think  who  you  really  are. 

And  over  the  reach  of  the  desert  bare, 

When  the  sun  drops  low  and  the  day  wind 
stills, 

Sometimes  you  kin  almost  see  Him  there, 
As  He  sits  alone  on  the  blue-gray  hills, 

A-thinkin'  of  things  that's  beyond  our  ken 

And  restin'  Himself  from  the  noise  of  men. 


88 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  MARRIED  MAN 

There's  an  old  pard  of  mine  that  sits  by  his 
door 

And  watches  the  evenin'  skies. 
He's  sat  there  a  thousand  evenin's  before 

And  I  reckon  he  will  till  he  dies. 
El  pobre!  *  I  reckon  he  will  till  he  dies, 

And  hear  through  the  dim,  quiet  air 
Far  cattle  that  call  and  the  crickets  that  cheep 
And  his  woman  a-singin'  a  kid  to  sleep 

And  the  creak  of  her  rockabye  chair. 

Once  we  made  camp  where  the  last  light 
would  fail 

And  the  east  wasn't  white  till  we'd  start, 
But  now  he  is  deaf  to  the  call  of  the  trail 

And  the  song  of  the  restless  heart. 
El  pobre!  the  song  of  the  restless  heart 

That  you  hear  in  the  wind  from  the  dawn! 
He's  left  it,  with  all  the  good,   free-footed 

things, 
For  a  slow  little  song  that  a  tired  woman  sings 

And  a  smoke  when  his  dry  day  is  gone. 

*  "El  pobre"  Spanish,  "Poor  fellow." 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


I've  rode  in  and  told  him  of  lands  that  were 

strange, 

Where  I'd  drifted  from  glory  to  dread. 
He'd  tell  me  the  news  of  his  little  old  range 

And  the  cute  things  his  kid  had  said! 
El  pobre!  the  cute  things  his  kid  had  said! 

And  the  way  six-year  Billy  could  ride! 
And  the  dark  would  creep  in  from  the  gray 

chaparral 
And  the  woman  would  hum,  while  I  pitied 

my  pal 
And  thought  of  him  like  he  had  died. 

He  rides  in  old  circles  and  looks  at  old  sights 

And  his  life  is  as  flat  as  a  pond. 
He  loves  the  old  skyline  he  watches  of  nights 

And  he  don't  seem  to  care  for  beyond. 
El  pobre!  he  don't  seem  to  dream  of  beyond, 

Nor  the  room  he  could  find,  there,  for  joy. 
"Ain't  you  ever  oneasy?"  says  I  one  day. 
But  he  only  just  smiled  in  a  pityin'  way 

While  he  braided  a  quirt  for  his  boy. 

He  preaches  that  I  orter  fold  up  my  wings 
And  that  even  wild  geese  find  a  nest. 

90 


°3. 
%> 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


That  "woman"  and  "wimmen"  are  different 

things 

And  a  saddle  nap  isn't  a  rest. 
El  pobre!  he's  more  for  the  shade  and  the  rest 

And  he's  less  for  the  wind  and  the  fight, 
Yet  out  in  strange  hills,  when  the  blue  shad- 
ows rise 
And  I'm  tired  from  the  wind  and  the  sun  in 

my  eyes, 
I  wonder,  sometimes,  if  he's  right. 

I've  courted  the  wind  and  I've  followed  her 

free 
From  the  snows  that  the  low  stars  have 

kissed 

To  the  heave  and  the  dip  of  the  wavy  old  sea, 

Yet  I  reckon  there's  somethin'  I've  missed. 

El  pobre!    Yes,  mebbe  there's  somethin'  I've 

missed, 

And  it  mebbe  is  more  than  I've  won — 
Just  a  door  that's  my  own,  while  the  cool 

shadows  creep, 

And  a  woman  a-singin'  my  kid  to  sleep 
When  I'm  tired  from  the  wind  and  the  sun. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  OLD  COW  MAN 

I  rode  across  a  valley  range 

I  hadn't  seen  for  years. 
The  trail  was  all  so  spoilt  and  strange 

It  nearly  fetched  the  tears. 
I  had  to  let  ten  fences  down 

(The  fussy  lanes  ran  wrong) 
And  each  new  line  would  make  me  frown 

And  hum  a  mournin'  song. 

Oh,  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak! 

Hear  'em  stretchin'  of  the  wire! 
The  nester  brand  is  on  the  land; 

I  reckon  I'll  retire, 
While  progress  toots  her  brassy  horn 

And  makes  her  motor  buzz, 
I  thank  the  Lord  I  wasn't  born 

No  later  than  I  <was. 

'Twas  good  to  live  when  all  the  sod, 

Without  no  fence  nor  fuss, 
Belonged  in  pardnership  to  God, 

The  Government  and  us. 


92 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


With  skyline  bounds  from  east  to  west 

And  room  to  go  and  come, 
I  loved  my  fellow  man  the  best 

When  he  was  scattered  some. 

Oh,  it's  squeak/  squeak/  squeak/ 

Close  and  closer  cramps  the  wire. 
There's  hardly  play  to  back  away 

And  call  a  man  a  liar. 
Their  house  has  locks  on  every  door; 

Their  land  is  in  a  crate. 
These  ain't  the  plains  of  God  no  more, 

They're  only  real  estate. 

There's  land  where  yet  no  ditchers  dig 

Nor  cranks  experiment; 
It's  only  lovely,  free  and  big 

And  isn't  worth  a  cent. 
I  pray  that  them  who  come  to  spoil 

May  wait  till  I  am  dead 
Before  they  foul  that  blessed  soil 

With  fence  and  cabbage  head. 

Yet  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak! 
Far  and  farther  crawls  the  wire. 

93 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


To  crowd  and  pinch  another  inch 

Is  all  their  heart's  desire. 
The  world  is  overstocked  with  men 

And  some  will  see  the  day 
When  each  must  keep  his  little  pen, 

But  I'll  be  jar  away. 

When  my  old  soul  hunts  range  and  rest 

Beyond  the  last  divide, 
Just  plant  me  in  some  stretch  of  West 

That's  sunny,  lone  and  wide. 
Let  cattle  rub  my  tombstone  down 

And  coyotes  mourn  their  kin, 
Let  hawses  paw  and  tromp  the  moun' 

But  don't  you  fence  it  in ! 

Oh,  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak/ 

And  they  pen  the  land  with  wire. 
They  figure  fence  and  copper  cents 

Where  we  laughed  'round  the  fire. 
Job  cussed  his  birthday,  night  and  morn, 

In  his  old  land  of  Uz, 
But  I'm  just  glad  I  wasn't  born 

no  later  than  I  was! 


94 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  PLAINSMEN 

Men  of  the  older,  gentler  soil, 

Loving     the     things     that     their     fathers 

wrought — 
Worn  old  fields  of  their  fathers'  toil, 

Scarred    old    hills    where    their    fathers 

fought — 

Loving  their  land  for  each  ancient  trace, 
Like  a  mother  dear  for  her  wrinkled  face, 
Such  as  they  never  can  understand 
The  way  we  have  loved  you,  young,  young 
land! 

Born  of  a  free,  world-wandering  race, 
Little  we  yearned  o'er  an  oft-turned  sod. 

What  did  we  care  for  the  fathers'  place, 
Having  ours  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God? 

Who  feared  the  strangeness  or  wiles  of  you 

When  from  the  unreckoned  miles  of  you, 
Thrilling  the  wind  with  a  sweet  command, 
Youth   unto   youth   called,    young,   young 
land? 


95 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


North,  where  the  hurrying  seasons  changed 
Over  great  gray  plains  where  the  trails  lay 
long, 

Free  as  the  sweeping  Chinook  we  ranged, 
Setting  our  days  to  a  saddle  song. 

Through  the  icy  challenge  you  flung  to  us, 

Through  your  shy  Spring  kisses  that  clung 

to  us, 

Following  far  as  the  rainbow  spanned, 
Fiercely  we  wooed  you,  young,  young  land! 

South,    where    the    sullen    black    mountains 

guard 

Limitless,  shimmering  lands  of  the  sun, 
Over  blinding  trails  where  the  hoofs   rang 

hard, 

Laughing  or  cursing,  we  rode  and  won. 
Drunk  with  the  virgin  white  fire  of  you, 
Hotter  than  thirst  was  desire  of  you ; 

Straight   in   our   faces   you   burned   your 

brand, 

Marking  your  chosen  ones,  young,  young 
land. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


When  did  we  long  for  the  sheltered  gloom 

Of  the  older  game  with  its  cautious  odds? 
Gloried  we  always  in  sun  and  room, 

Spending  our  strength   like  the  younger 

gods. 

By  the  wild  sweet  ardor  that  ran  in  us, 
By  the  pain  that  tested  the  man  in  us, 

By  the  shadowy  springs  and  the  glaring 
sand, 

You  were  our  true-love,  young,  young  land. 

When  the  last  free  trail  is  a  prime,  fenced  lane 
And  our  graves  grow  weeds  through  for- 
getful Mays, 
Richer  and  statelier  then  you'll  reign, 

Mother    of    men   whom    the   world   will 

praise. 

And  your  sons  will  love  you  and  sigh  for  you, 
Labor  and  battle  and  die  for  you, 
But  never  the  fondest  will  understand 
The  way  we  have  loved  you,  young,  young 
land. 


97 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  WESTERNER 

My  fathers  sleep  on  the  sunrise  plains, 

And  each  one  sleeps  alone. 
Their  trails  may  dim  to  the  grass  and  rains, 

For  I  choose  to  make  my  own. 
I  lay  proud  claim  to  their  blood  and  name, 

But  I  lean  on  no  dead  kin; 
My  name  is  mine,  for  the  praise  or  scorn, 
And  the  world  began  when  I  was  born 

And  the  world  is  mine  to  win. 

They  built  high  towns  on  their  old  log  sills, 

Where  the  great,  slow  rivers  gleamed, 
But  with  new,  live  rock  from  the  savage  hills 

I'll  build  as  they  only  dreamed. 
The  smoke  scarce  dies  where  the  trail  camp 
lies, 

Till  the  rails  glint  down  the  pass; 
The  desert  springs  into  fruit  and  wheat 
And  I  lay  the  stones  of  a  solid  street 

Over  yesterday's  untrod  grass. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


I  waste  no  thought  on  my  neighbor's  birth 

Or  the  way  he  makes  his  prayer. 
I  grant  him  a  white  man's  room  on  earth 

If  his  game  is  only  square. 
While  he  plays  it  straight  I'll  call  him  mate; 

If  he  cheats  I  drop  him  flat. 
Old  class  and  rank  are  a  wornout  lie, 
For  all  clean  men  are  as  good  as  I, 

And  a  king  is  only  that. 

I  dream  no  dreams  of  a  nurse-maid  state 

That  will  spoon  me  out  my  food. 
A  stout  heart  sings  in  the  fray  with  fate 

And  the  shock  and  sweat  are  good. 
From  noon  to  noon  all  the  earthly  boon 

That  I  ask  my  God  to  spare 
Is  a  little  daily  bread  in  store, 
With  the  room  to  fight  the  strong  for  more, 

And  the  weak  shall  get  their  share. 

The  sunrise  plains  are  a  tender  haze 

And  the  sunset  seas  are  gray, 
But  I  stand  here,  where  the  bright  skies  blaze 

Over  me  and  the  big  today. 


99 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


What  good  to  me  is  a  vague  "maybe" 
Or  a  mournful  "might  have  been," 
For  the  sun  wheels  swift  from  morn  to  morn 
And  the  world  began  when  I  was  born 
And  the  world  is  mine  to  win. 


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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  WIND  IS  BLOWIN' 

My  tired  hawse  nickers  for  his  own  home 
bars; 

A  hoof  clicks  out  a  spark. 
The  dim  creek  flickers  to  the  lonesome  stars ; 

The  trail  twists  down  the  dark. 
The  ridge  pines  whimper  to  the  pines  below. 
The  wind  is  blowin'  and  I  want  you  so. 

The  birch  has  yellowed  since  I  saw  you  last, 
The  Fall  haze  blued  the  creeks, 

The  big  pine  bellowed  as  the  snow  swished 

past, 
But  still,  above  the  peaks, 

The  same  stars  twinkle  that  we  used  to  know. 

The  wind  is  blowin'  and  I  want  you  so. 

The  stars  up  yonder  wait  the  end  of  time 

But  earth  fires  soon  go  black. 
I  trip  and  wander  on  the  trail  I  climb — 

A  fool  who  will  look  back 
To  glimpse  a  fire  dead  a  year  ago. 
The  wind  is  blowin'  and  I  want  you  so. 

101 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Who  says  the  lover  kills  the  man  in  me? 

Beneath  the  day's  hot  blue 
This  thing  hunts  cover  and  my  heart  fights 
free 

To  laugh  an  hour  or  two. 
But  now  it  wavers  like  a  wounded  doe. 
The  wind  is  blowin'  and  I  want  you  so. 


102 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


ON  BOOT  HILL 

Up  from  the  prairie  and  through  the  pines, 
Over  your  straggling  headboard  lines 

Winds  of  the  West  go  by. 
You  must  love  them,  you  booted  dead, 
More  than  the  dreamers  who  died  in  bed — 
You  old-timers  who  took  your  lead 

Under  the  open  sky! 

Leathery  knights  of  the  dim  old  trail, 
Lawful  fighters  or  scamps  from  jail, 

Dimly  your  virtues  shine. 
Yet  who  am  I  that  I  judge  your  wars, 
Deeds  that  my  daintier  soul  abhors, 
Wide-open  sins  of  the  wide  outdoors, 

Manlier  sins  than  mine. 

Dear  old  mavericks,  customs  mend. 
I  would  not  glory  to  make  an  end 

Marked  like  a  homemade  sieve. 
But  with  a  touch  of  your  own  old  pride 
Grant  me  to  travel  the  trail  I  ride. 
Gamely  and  gaily,  the  way  you  died, 

Give  me  the  nerve  to  live. 


103 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Ay,  and  for  you  I  will  dare  assume 
Some  Valhalla  of  sun  and  room 

Over  the  last  divide. 
There,  in  eternally  fenceless  West, 
Rest  to  your  souls,  if  they  care  to  rest, 
Or  else  fresh  horses  beyond  the  crest 

And  a  star-speckled  range  to  ride. 


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GRASS  GROWN  TRAILS 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


THE  COYOTE 

Trailing  the  last  gleam  after, 
In  the  valleys  emptied  of  light, 

Ripples  a  whimsical  laughter 
Under  the  wings  of  the  night. 

Mocking  the  faded  west  airily, 

Meeting  the  little  bats  merrily, 
Over  the  mesas  it  shrills 
To  the  red  moon  on  the  hills. 

Mournfully  rising  and  waning, 

Far  through  the  moon-silvered  land 

Wails  a  weird  voice  of  complaining 
Over  the  thorns  and  the  sand. 

Out  of  blue  silences  eerily. 

On  to  the  black  mountains  wearily, 
Till  the  dim  desert  is  crossed, 
Wanders  the  cry,  and  is  lost. 

Here  by  the  fire's  ruddy  streamers, 
Tired  with  our  hopes  and  our  fears, 

We  inarticulate  dreamers 

Hark  to  the  song  of  our  years. 

107 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Up  to  the  brooding  divinity 
Far  in  that  sparkling  infinity 
Cry  our  despair  and  delight, 
Voice  of  the  Western  night! 


1 08 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


THE  FREE  WIND 

I  went  and  worked  in  a  drippin'  mine 

'Mong  the  rock  and  the  oozin'  wood, 
For  the  dark  seemed  lit  with  a  dollar  sign 

And  they  told  me  money's  good. 
So  I  jumped  and  sweat  for  a  flat-foot  boss 

Till  my  pocket  bulged  with  pay, 
But  my  heart  it  fought  like  a  led  bronc  hawse 

Till  I  flung  my  drill  away. 

For  the  wind,  the  wind,  the  good  free  wind, 

She  sang  from  the  pine  divide 
That  the  sky  was  blue  and  the  young  years  few 

And  the  world  was  big  and  wide! 
From  the  poor,  bare  hills  all  gashed  with  scars 

I  rode  till  the  range  was  crossed; 
Then  I  watched  the  gold  of  sunset  bars 
And  my  camp-sparks  glintin'  toward  the  stars 

And  laughed  at  the  pay  I'd  lost. 

I  went  and  walked  in  the  city  way 
Down  a  glitterin'  canyon  street, 

For  the  thousand  lights  looked  good  and  gay 
And  they  said  life  there  was  sweet. 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


So  the  wimmen  laughed  while  night  reeled  by 
And  the  wine  ran  red  and  gold, 

But  their  laugh  was  the  starved  wolf's  huntin' 

cry 
And  their  eyes  were  hard  and  old. 

And  the  wind,  the  wind,  the  clean  free  wind, 

She  laughed  through  the  April  rains: 
"Come  out  and  live  by  the  wine  I  give 

In  the  smell  of  the  greenin'  plains!'' 
And  I  looked  back  once  to  the  smoky  towers 

Where  my  face  had  bleached  so  pale, 
Then  loped  through  the  lash  of  drivin'  show- 
ers 
To  the  uncut  sod  and  the  prairie  flowers 

And  the  old  wide  life  o'  the  trail. 

I  went  and  camped  in  the  valley  trees 

Where  the  thick  leaves  whispered  rest, 
For  love  lived  there  'mong  the  honey  bees, 

And  they  told  me  love  was  best. 
There  the  twilight  lanes  were  cool  and  dim 

And  the  orchards  pink  with  May, 
Yet  my  eyes  they'd  lift  to  the  valley's  rim 

Where  the  desert  reached  away. 

no 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


And  the  'wind,  the  wind,  the  wild  free  wind, 

She  called  from  the  web  love  spun 
To  the  unbought  sand  of  the  lone  trail  land 

And  the  sweet  hot  kiss  of  the  sun! 
Oh,  I  looked  back  twice  to  the  valley  lass, 
Then  I  set  my  spurs  and  sung, 
For  the  sun  sailed  up  above  the  pass 
And  the  mornin'  wind  was  in  the  grass 
And  my  hawse  and  me  was  young. 


in 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN 

"The  trail  is  long  to  the  bison  herd, 

The  prairie  rotten  with  rain, 
And  look!  the  wings  of  the  thunder  bird 

Blacken  the  hills  again. 
A  medicine  man  the  gods  may  balk — 
Go  fight  for  us  with  the  thunder  hawk!" 

The  medicine  man  flung  out  his  arms. 

"I  am  weary  of  woman  talk 
And  cook-fire  witching  and  childish  charms! 

I  fight  you  the  thunder  hawk!" 
Then  he  took  his  arrows  and  climbed  the  butte 
While  the  warriors  watched  him,  scared  and 
mute. 

A  wind  from  the  wings  began  to  blow 
And  the  arrows  of  rain  to  shoot, 

As  the  medicine  man  raised  high  his  bow, 
Standing  alone  on  the  butte, 

And  the  day  went  dark  to  the  cowering  band 

As  the  arrow  leaped  from  his  steady  hand. 

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Grass  Grown   Trails 


For  the  thunder  hawk  swooped  down  to  fight 
And  who  in  his  way  could  stand? 

The  flash  of  his  eye  was  blinding  bright 
And  his  wing-clap  stunned  the  land. 

The  braves  yelled  terror  and  loosed  the  rain 

And  scattered  far  on  the  drowning  plain. 

So,  after  the  thunder  hawk  swept  by, 
They  found  him,  scorched  and  slain, 

Yet  (fighting  with  gods,  who  fears  to  die?) 
He  smiled  with  a  light  disdain. 

That  smile  was  glory  to  all  his  clan 

But  none  dared  touch  the  medicine  man. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  PIANO  AT  RED'S 

'Twas  a  hole  called  Red's  Saloon 

In  La  Vaca  town; 
'Twas  an  old  piano  there, 

Blistered,  marred  and  brown, 
And  a  man  more  battered  still, 

Takin's  drinks  for  fees, 
Played  all  night  from  memory 

On  the  yellow  keys. 

While  the  glasses  clinked  and  clashed 

On  the  sloppy  bar, 
That  piano's  dreamy  voice 

Took  you  out  and  far, 
Ridin'  old,  forgotten  trails 

Underneath  the  moon, 
Till  you  heard  a  drunken  yell 

Back  in  Red's  Saloon. 

Whirr  of  wheel  and  slap  of  cards, 

Talk  of  loss  and  gain, 
Mixed  with  hum  of  honey  bees 

Down  a  sunny  lane. 

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Grass  Grown  Trails 


Glimpses  of  your  mother's  face, 

Touch  of  girlish  lips 
Often  made  you  lose  your  count 

As  you  stacked  your  chips. 

Scufflin'  feet  and  thud  of  fists, 

Curses  hot  as  fire — 
Still  the  music  sang  of  love, 

Longing  lost  desire, 
Dreams  that  never  could  have  been, 

Joys  that  couldn't  stay  — 
While  the  man  upon  the  floor 

Wiped  the  blood  away. 

Then,  some  way,  it  followed  you, 

Slept  upon  your  breast, 
Trailed  you  out  across  the  range, 

Never  let  you  rest; 
And  for  days  and  days  you'd  hum 

Just  one  scrap  of  tune — 
Funny  place  for  music,  though, 

Back  in  Red's  Saloon! 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


A  RANGER 

He  never  made  parade  of  tooth  or  claw; 
He  was  plain  as  us  that  nursed  the  bawlin' 

herds. 
Though  he  had  a  rather  meanin'-lookin'  jaw, 

He  was  shy  of  exercisin'  it  with  words. 
As  a  circuit-ridin'  preacher  of  the  law, 

All  his  preachin'  was  the  sort  that  hit  the 

nail; 
He  was  just  a  common  ranger,  just  a  ridin' 

pilgrim  stranger, 
And  he  labored  with  the  sinners  of  the  trail. 

Once  a  Yaqui  knifed  a  woman,  jealous  mad, 
Then  hit  southward  with  the  old,  old  kill- 
er's plan, 

And  nobody  missed  the  woman  very  bad, 
While  they'd  just  a  little  rather  missed  the 

man. 
But  the  ranger  crossed  his  trail  and  sniffed  it 

glad, 

And  then  loped  away  to  bring  him  back 
again, 

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Grass  Grown  Trails 


For  he  stood   for  peace   and  order  on  the 

lonely,  sunny  border 

And  his  business  was  to  hunt  for  sinful 
men! 

So  the  trail  it  led  him  southward  all  the  day, 
Through  the  shinin'  country  of  the  thorn 

and  snake, 
Where  the  heat  had  drove  the  lizards  from 

their  play 
To  the  shade  of  rock  and  bush  and  yucca 

stake. 
And  the  mountains  heaved  and  rippled  far 

away 
And  the  desert  broiled  as  on  the  devil's 

prong 
But  he  didn't  mind  the  devil  if  his  head  kep' 

clear  and  level 

And  the  hoofs  beat  out  their  quick  and 
steady  song. 

Came  the  yellow  west,  and  on  far-off  rise 
Something  black  crawled  up  and  dropped 
beyond  the  rim, 

117 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


And  he  reached  his  rifle  out  and  rubbed  his 

eyes 
While   he   cussed   the   southern   hills   for 

growin'  dim. 

Down  a  hazy  'royo  came  the  coyote  cries, 
Like  they  laughed  at  him  because  he'd  lost 

his  mark, 
And  the  smile  that  brands  a  fighter  pulled  his 

mouth  a  little  tighter 

As  he  set  his  spurs  and  rode  on  through  the 
dark. 


Came  the  moonlight  on  a  trail  that  wriggled 

higher 
Through    the    mountains    that    look    into 

Mexico, 
And  the  shadows  strung  his  nerves  like  banjo 

wire 

And  the  miles  and  minutes  dragged  un- 
earthly slow. 

Then  a  black  mesquite  spit  out  a  thread  of  fire 
And  the  canyon  walls  flung  thunder  back 
again, 

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Grass  Grown  Trails 


And  he  caught  himself  and  fumbled  at  his 

rifle  while  he  grumbled 
That  his  bridle  arm  had  weight  enough  for 
ten. 

Though  his  rifle  pointed  wavy-like  and  slack 
And  he  grabbed  for  leather  at  his  hawse's 

shy, 

Yet  he  sent  a  soft-nosed  exhortation  back 
That  convinced  the  sinner — just  above  the 

eye. 
So  the  sinner  sprawled  among  the  shadows 

black 
While  the  ranger  drifted  north  beneath  the 

moon, 
Wabblin'  crazy  in  his  saddle,  workin'  hard  to 

stay  astraddle 

While  the  hoofs  beat  out  a  slow  and  sorry 
tune. 

When  the  sheriff  got  up  early  out  of  bed, 
How  he  stared  and  vowed  his  soul  a  total 
loss, 

119 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


As  he  saw  the  droopy  thing  all  blotched  with 

red 
That  came  ridin'   in   aboard   a   tremblin' 

hawse. 

But  "I  got  'im"  was  the  most  the  ranger  said 
And  you  couldn't  hire  him,  now,  to  tell  the 

tale; 

He  was  just  a  quiet  ranger,  just  a  ridin'  pil- 
grim stranger 
And  he  labored  with  the  sinners  of  the  trail. 


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Grass  Grown   Trails 


ON  THE  DRIVE 

Oh,  days  whoop  by  with  swingin'  lope 

And  days  slip  by  a-sleepin', 
And  days  must  drag,  with  lazy  rope, 

Along  the  trail  a-creepin'. 
Heeya-a!  you  cattle;  drift  away! 
Heeyow!  the  slow  hoofs  sift  away 
And  sunny  dust  clouds  lift  away, 

Along  the  trail  a-creepin'. 

My  pard  may  si"g  of  sighin'  love 

And  I  of  roarin'  battle, 
But  all  the  time  we  sweat  and  shove 

And  follow  up  the  cattle. 
Heeya-a!  the  bawlin'  crowd  of  you! 
Heeyow  the  draggin'  cloud  of  you! 
We're  glad  and  gay  and  proud  of  you, 

We  men  that  follow  cattle ! 

But  all  the  world's  a  movin'  herd 
Where  men  drift  on  together, 

And  some  may  spur  and  some  are  spurred, 
But  most  are  horns  and  leather! 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Heeya-a!  the  rider  sings  along, 
Heeyow!  the  reined  hawse  swings  along 
And  drifts  and  drags  and  flings  along 
The  mob  of  horns  and  leather. 

The  outlaws  fight  to  break  away; 

The  weak  and  lame  are  crawlin', 
But  only  dead  ones  quit  the  play, 

The  dust-cloud  and  the  bawlin'. 
Heeya-a!  it's  grief  and  strife  to  us; 
Heeyow!  it's  child  and  wife  to  us; 
By  leap  or  limp,  it's  life  to  us; 

The  dust-cloud  and  the  bawlin'. 

Some  dream  ahead  to  pastures  green, 
Some  stare  ahead  to  slaughter, 

But,  anyway,  night  drops  between 
And  brings  us  rest  and  water. 

Heeya-a!  you  cattle,  drift  away! 

Heeyow!  the  dust-clouds  lift  away; 

The  glarin'  miles  will  shift  away 
And  leave  us  rest  and  water. 




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Grass  Grown  Trails 


SATURDAY  NIGHT 

Out  from  the  ranch  on  a  Saturday  night, 
Ridin'  a  hawse  that's  a  shootin'  star, 

Close  on  the  flanks  of  the  flyin'  daylight, 
Racin'  with  dark  for  the  J  L  Bar. 

Fox-trot  and  canter  will  do  for  the  day; 

It's  a  gallop,  my  love,  when  I'm  ridin'  your 
way. 

Up  the  arroyo  the  trippin'  hoofs  beat, 
Flingin'  the  hinderin'  gravel  wide; 
Now  your  light  glimmers   across  the  mes- 

quite, 

Glimpsed  from  the  top  of  a  rocky  divide; 
Down  through  a  draw  where  the  shadows  are 

gray 
I'm  comin',  my  darlm',  I'm  ridin'  your  way. 

West,  where  the  sky  is  a-blushin'  afar, 
Matchin'  your  cheeks  as  the  daylight  dies, 

West,  where  the  shine  of  a  glitterin'  star 
Hints  of  the  light  I  will  find  in  your  eyes, 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Night-birds  are  passin'  the  signal  to  say: 
"He's  comin',   my  lady,   he's   ridin'  your 
way." 

Hoof-beats  are  measurin'  seconds  so  fast, 
Clickin'  them  off  with  an  easy  rhyme; 

Minutes  will  grow  into  months  at  the  last, 
Mebbe  to  bring  us  a  marryin'  time. 

Life  would  be  singin'  and  work  would  be  play 

If  every  night  I  was  ridin'  your  way. 


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Grass  Grown  Trails 


SOUTHWESTERN  JUNE 

Lazy  little  hawse,  it's  noon 

And  we've  wasted  saddle  leather, 

But  the  mornin's  slip  so  soon 
When  we  drift  around  together 
In  this  lazy,  shinin'  weather, 

Sunny,  easy-goin'  June. 

Who  kin  study  shamblin'  herds, 
How  they  calve  or  die  or  wander, 

When  the  bridegroom  mockin'-birds, 
Singin'  here  and  there  and  yonder, 
Trill  that  June's  too  bright  to  ponder 

And  life's  just  too  fine  for  words! 

Down  the  desert's  hazy  blue 

See  the  tall  gray  whirlwinds  f  arm', 

Slow,  contented  sort  of  crew 
Trailin'  'cross  the  sunny  barren, 
Headed  nowhere  and  not  carin' 

Just  the  same  as  me  and  you. 

From  a  world  of  unfenced  room 

Just  a  breath  of  breeze  is  strayin', 
Triflin'  with  the  yucca  bloom 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Till  its  waxy  bells  are  swayin', 
On  my  cheek  warm  kisses  layin' 

Soft  as  touch  of  ostrich  plume. 

\ 

When  the  July  lightnin'  gleams 
This  brown  range  will  start  to  workin', 

Hills  be  green  and  tricklin'  streams 
Down  each  deep  arroyo  lurkin' ; 
Now  the  sleepy  land  is  shirking 

Drowzin',  smilin'  in  her  dreams. 

Steppin'  little  hawse,  it's  noon. 
Turquoise  blue  the  far  hills  glimmer; 

"Sun — sun — sun,"  the  mockers  croon 
Where  the  yellow  range  lands  shimmer, 
And  our  sparklin'  spirits  simmer 

For  we're  young  yet,  and  it's  June! 


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Grass  Grown   Trails 


THE  NIGHT  HERDER 

I  laughed  when  the  dawn  was  a-peepin' 
And  swore  in  the  blaze  of  the  noon, 

But  down  from  the  stars  is  a-creepin* 
A  softer,  oneasier  tune. 
Away,  and  away,  and  away, 
The  whisperin'  night  seems  to  say 

Though  the  trail-weary  cattle  are  sleepin' 
And  the  desert  dreams  under  the  moon. 

By  day,  if  the  roarin'  herd  scatters, 

My  heart  it  is  steady  and  set, 
But  now,  when  they're  quiet,  it  patters 

Like  the  ball  in  a  spinnin'  roulette. 

Away,  and  away,  and  away 

To  the  rim  where  the  heat  lightnin's  play — 
Out  there  is  the  one  trail  that  matters 

To  the  valley  I  never  forget. 

There's    a    pass   where   the    black   shadows 
shiver, 

Then  a  desert  all  silvery  blue, 
A  divide,  and  the  breaks  by  the  river, 

Then  a  light  in  the  valley — and  you  1 

127 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Away,  and  away,  and  away — 
'Tis  a  month  till  I  see  you  by  day, 
But  under  the  moon  it's  forever 
And    the    weary    trail    winds    the    world 
through. 

The  coyotes  are  laughin'  out  yonder, 

A  happy  owl  whoops  on  the  hill — 
Oh,  wild,  lucky  things  that  kin  wander 

As  far  and  as  free  as  they  will! 

Away,  and  away,  and  away, 

And  I  that  am  wilder  than  they 
Must  loll  in  my  saddle  and  ponder 

Or  sing  for  the  cows  to  be  still ! 

I  see  the  dark  river  waves  wrinkle; 

The  valley  trees  droop  in  a  swoon ; 
You're  dreamin'  where  valley  bells  tinkle 

And  half-asleep  mockin'-birds  croon. 

Away,  and  away,  and  away — 

Do  your  dainty  dreams  ever  stray 
To  a  camp  where  the  desert  stars  twinkle 

And  a  lone  rider  sings  to  the  moon? 


128 


Grass  Grown  Trails 


HAWSE  WORK 

Stop!  there's  the  wild  bunch  to  right  of  the 

trail, 

Heads  up  and  ears  up  and  ready  to  sail, 
Led  by  a  mare  with  the  green  in  her  eyes, 
Mean  as  the  devil  and  nearly  as  wise. 
Circle  'em,  boys,  and  the  pass  is  the  place; 
Settle  your  heels  for  a  rowelin'  race. 

Oh,  hawse  work!  the  sweep  and  the  drift 
of  it! 

Hawse  work!  the  leap  and  the  lift  of  it! 
Who  wants  to  fly  in  the  empty  blue  sky 

When  he  kin  ride  on  the  hawse  work! 

Hi!  and  they're  off  in  a  whirlwind.    Sol 
Straight  in  the  line  we  don't  want  'em  to  go ; 
Light-footed,  wild-hearted,  look  at  'em  flit! 
Head  'em,  now!  rowel,  and  turn  loose  the  bit! 
Wheel  and  the  rip  and  the  rush  and  the  beat, 
Rattlin'  rocks  and  the  whippin'  mesquite! 

Oh,  hawse  work!  the  swing  and  the  swell 

of  it! 
Hawse  work!  the  sing  and  the  yell  of  it! 

129 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Holler  goodbye  to  the  dull  and  the  dry; 
Leave  'em  behind  on  the  hawse  work. 

Shorty  is  down  with  his  hawse  in  a  heap ; 
Might  have  pulled  in  for  a  gully  so  deep. 
Reddy  he  rides  like  he's  tired  of  his  life; 
Ought  to  be  thinkin'  he's  got  a  wife — 
Shrinkin'   and   thinkin'   of   bones   that   may 

crunch? 
No!    Yip!  we've  headed  the  mare  and  her 

bunch ! 

Oh,  hawse  work!  the  rip  and  the  tear  of  it! 

Hawse  work!  the  dip  and  the  dare  of  it! 
Life  flutters  high  when  you're  lookin'  to 
die; 

That  is  the  fun  of  the  hawse  work. 

Hi!  and  you're  foolish  for  once,  old  lass, 
Streakin'  it  straight  for  the  trap  in  the  pass. 
Into  the  canyon  the  hoof-thunder  drums — 
Where   is   that  holdup?     Hump!   there  he 

comes,     •  ' 

Crow-hoppin'  down  from  the  bluff — too  late! 
Damn!  and  they're  gone  for  a  tour  of  the 

State! 

130 


Grass  Grown  Trails 


Oh,  hawse  'work,  the  rant  and  the  fuss  of  it! 

Hawse  work!  the  pant  and  the  cuss  of  it! 
Yet  when  I  sigh  and  the  world  is  a  lie 

Give  me  a  day  on  the  hawse  work! 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


HALF-BREED 

Fathers  with  eyes  of  ancient  ire, 

Old  eagles  shorn  of  flight, 
Forget  the  breed  of  my  blue-eyed  sire 
While  I  sit  this  hour  by  the  council  fire, 

All  red  in  the  fire's  red  light. 

Chant  me  the  day  of  the  war-steed's  prance 

And  the  signal  fires  on  the  buttes, 
Of  the  Cheyenne  scalps  on  the  lifted  lance, 
Of  the  women  raped  from  the  Pawnee  dance 
And  the  wild  death  trail  of  the  Utes. 

Sing  me  the  song  of  the  buffalo  run 
To  the  edge  of  the  canyon  snare, 

With  the  roaring  plunge  when  the  meat  was 
won 

And  the  flash  of  knives  in  the  low  red  sun 
And  the  good  blood  smell  in  the  air. 

Chant  me  the  might  of  the  Manitou — 

But  the  old  song  drags  and  dies. 
Old  things  have  drifted  the  sunset  through 
Till  the  very  God  of  the  land  comes  new 

From  the  rim  where  the  young  stars  rise! 

132 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


Fathers,  red  men,  the  red  flame  falls, 

And  over  the  dim  dawn  lands 
My  white  soul  hunts  me  again  and  calls 
To  the  lanes  of  law  and  the  shadow  of  walls 

And  a  woman  with  soft  white  hands. 


133 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


TO  HER 

Cut  loose  a  hundred  rivers, 

Roaring  across  my  trail, 
Swift  as  the  lightning  quivers, 

Loud  as  a  mountain  gale. 
I  build  me  a  boat  of  slivers ; 

I  weave  me  a  sail  of  fur, 
And  ducks  may  founder  and  die 
But  I 

Cross  that  river  to  herl 

Bunch  the  deserts  together, 
Hang  three  suns  in  the  vault; 

Scorch  the  lizards  to  leather, 
Strangle  the  springs  with  salt. 

I  fly  with  a  buzzard  feather, 
I  dig  me  wells  with  a  spur, 

And  snakes  may  famish  and  fry 
But  I 

Cross  that  desert  to  her! 

Murder  my  sleep  with  revel ; 
Make  me  ride  through  the  bogs 

134 


Grass  Grown  Trails 


Knee  to  knee  with  the  devil, 
Just  ahead  of  the  dogs. 

I  harrow  the  Bad  Lands  level, 
I  teach  the  tiger  to  purr, 

For  saints  may  wallow  and  lie 

But  I 
Go  clean-hearted  to  her! 


135 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  LOCOED  HORSE 

As  I  was  ridin'  all  alone 

And  winkin'  in  the  noontime  glare, 
I  seen  a  hawse  all  hide  and  bone 

Walk  'round  a  willow  dead  and  bare — 
Walk    'round    and    'round,   with    limp    and 
groan, 

And  hunt  the  shade  that  wasn't  there. 
And  then  says  I :  "That  sorry  steed 
Has  been  and  et  the  loco  weed." 

Near  by  a  spreadin'  live  oak  laid 
Its  wide,  cool  shadow  on  the  ground, 

But  then  he  knowed  that  willow's  shade 
Was  just  a  little  further  'round 

And  reckoned,  each  slow  step  he  made, 
That  in  the  next  it  would  be  found. 

There,  like  a  coon,  his  thoughts  were  treed 

Since  he  had  et  the  loco  weed. 

The  water  trail  went  windin'  by, 

The  sweet  brown  grass  furred  every  slope 
And  he  was  ga'nt  and  starved  and  dry, 

136 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


Yet,  on  his  ghostly  picket  rope 
Led  'round  and  'round,  he  still  must  try 

That  hopeless  circle  of  his  hope. 
He  didn't  think  of  drink  or  feed 
Since  he  had  et  the  loco  weed. 

A  playful  wild  bunch  topped  the  hill 
And  stared  with  eyes  all  impish  bright 

And  whinnered  to  him  sweet  and  shrill, 
Then   flung  their  heads   and  loped   from 
sight, 

Yet  from  that  everlastin'  mill 

They  couldn't  make  him  stray  a  mite. 

He  never  seen  their  gay  stampede 

For  he  had  et  the  loco  weed. 

When  next  that  range  I  had  to  ride 

Beneath  his  willow  tree  he  lay, 
Just  wornout  hoofs  and  faded  hide 

And  big  black  birds  that  flopped  away; 
But  yet  I  reckon  that  he  died 

Still  hopeful — happy — who  kin  say? 
Sometimes  I  think  I  mostly  need 
To  eat  some  sort  of  loco  weed. 


137 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  LONG  WAY 

Two  miles  of  ridin'  from  the  school,  without 

a  bit  of  trouble — 
The  main  road  hit  her  father's  ranch  as 

straight  as  you  could  fall. 
I  led  her  by  a  shorter  cut  that  made  the  dis- 
tance double 

And  guided  her  along  a  trail  that  wasn't 
there  at  all. 

The  long  <way,  the  long  'way,  but  ridin'  it  to- 
gether 
I  never  cared  a  feather  for  the  length  and 

never  shall, 
With  happy  hoofs  that  shuffled  to  the  singin 

saddle  leather 

And  laughin   wind  that  ruffled  sunny  miles 
of  chaparral. 

The  trail  of  our  meanderin'  would  tire  a  wolf 

to  follow; 

The  range  was  hardly  wide  enough  for  us 
to  go  around. 

138 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


I  dared  to  hope  she  liked  it,  bare  hill  and 

thorny  hollow, 

And  prayed  that  all  her  likin'  wasn't  wast- 
ed on  the  ground. 


The  long  way,  the  long  way,  and  down  the 

wind  we  drifted, 
And  soon  the  sand  was  sifted  in  our  tracks 

and  they  were  gone, 
I  dreamed  of  no  forgettin'  while  to  me  her 

face  was  lifted, 

Nor  knowed  the  sun  was  setting  for  her 
eyes  were  full  of  dawn. 


Perhaps  I  hoped  that  we  were  lost  without  a 

trail  to  guide  us. 
It  shocked  me  like  a  bullet  when  the  dogs 

began  to  bark, 
And  suddenly,  from  nowhere,  the  ranch  was 

there  beside  us, 

She  reined  away  and  left  me,  and  the  world 
was  in  the  dark. 


139 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


The  long  way,  the  long  way,  of  all  my  old 

Septembers, 
Gone  gray  like  campfire  embers  when  the 

midnight  coyote  shrills, 
One  hour  stays  golden  mellow — do  you  reckon 

she  remembers 

That    sunset    fadin     yellow    through    the 
notches  of  the  hills? 


140 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


FREIGHTIN' 

Forty  miles  from  Taggart's  store, 

Fifty  yet  to  grind, 
Heavin'  six  strung  out  before, 

Trailer  snubbed  behind; 
Half  a  world  of  glarin'  sand 

Prayin'  for  a  tree, 
Nothin'  movin'  'cross  the  land 

But  the  sun  and  me. 

Chuck  an'  luck!  luck  an'  chuck! 

Grunts  the  workin'  wheels; 
Lazy  gust  swirls  up  the  dust 

From  the  hawses'  heels. 
I've  been  young  and  raced  and  sung, 

But  I've  learnt  my  load. 
Slow,  slow,  on  we  go 

Out  the  stretchin'  road. 

Where  the  sky-line  waves  and  breaks 

Shines  a  misty  beach 
And  the  blue  of  ripplin'  lakes — 

Lakes  no  man  kin  reach. 


141 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Just  beyond  my  leaders'  bits 

Winds  the  life  I  know, 
Ruts  and  'royos,  hills  and  pits 

In  a  daylong  row. 

Chuck  an  luck!  luck  an   chuck! 

Life's  more  miss  than  hit. 
Luck's  the  thing  I  dream  and  sing; 

Chuck  is  all  I  git! 
'Neath  the  sky  I  crawl  and  fry 

Like  the  horny  toad. 
Slow,  slow,  on  we  go 

Out  the  stretchin   road. 

When  I  reach  that  sparklin'  line 

Where  the  ripples  run, 
There'll  be  just  this  road  of  mine 

And  the  dust  and  sun. 
Mebbe  on  my  last  far  hill, 

Where  the  dream-mist  clears, 
I'll  be  freighting  f  reightin7  still 

Down  the  road  of  years. 

Chuck  an'  luck!  luck  an'  chuck! 
Sky-lines  mostly  lie, 

142 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


Yet  they  beat  the  limp  mesquite 

That  goes  trailin'  by. 
Luck  enough  to  move  my  stuff — 

More  I've  never  knowed. 
Slow,  slow,  on  we  go 

Out  the  stretchin'  road. 

Slim  and  far  our  shadow  swings; 

Sun  is  on  his  knees. 
Some  one's  campin'  at  the  springs — 

Smell  it  down  the  breeze. 
Chuck  time,  boys,  and  sleep  besides, 

When  we've  chomped  our  hay. 
Durn  your  dusty,  trusty  hides  1 

You've  sho'  earned  your  pay. 

Chuck  an'  luck!  luck  an'  chuck! 

Grunts  the  weary  wheels; 
Dreams  untold  and  sunset  goldf 

Cussin'  sweat  and  meals. 
If  you  kin,  Lord,  let  me  win, 

But  I'll  move  my  load. 
Slow,  slow,  on  we  go 

Out  the  stretchin'  road. 

H3 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  RAINS 
You've  watched  the  ground-hog's  shadow  and 

the  shiftin'  weather  signs 
Till  the  Northern  prairie  starred  itse'f  with 

flowers ; 
YouVe  seen  the  snow  a-meltin'  up  among  the 

Northern  pines 
And  the  mountain  creeks  a-roarin'  with  the 

showers. 
YouVe  blessed  the  stranger  sunlight  when  the 

Winter  days  were  done 
And  the  Summer  creepin'  down  the  budded 

lanes. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  Springtime  in  the  home 

range  of  the  sun, 

When  the  desert  land  is  waitin'  for  the 
Rains? 

The  April  days  are  sun  and  sun ;  the  last  thin 

cloud  is  fled. 

It's  gold  above  the  eastern  mountain  crest, 
Then  blaze  upon  the  yellow  range  all  day 

from  overhead 
And  then  a  stripe  of  gold  across  the  west. 

144 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


The  dry  wind  mourns  among  the  hills,  a-hunt- 

in'  trees  and  grass, 

Then  down  the  desert  flats  it  rises  higher 
And  sweeps  a  rollin'  dust-storm  up  and  flings 

it  through  the  pass 

And  fills  the  evenin'  west  with  smoulderin' 
fire. 

It's  sun  and  sun  without  a  change  the  lazy 

length  o'  May 

And  all  the  little  sun  things  own  the  land. 
The  horned  toad  basks  and  swells  himse'f; 

the  bright  swifts  dart  and  play; 
The  rattler  hunts  or  dozes  in  the  sand. 
The  wind  comes  off  the  desert  like  it  brushed 

a  bed  of  coals; 
The  sickly  range  grass  withers  down  and 

fails; 
The  bony  cattle  bawl  around  the  dryin'  water 

holes, 

Then  stagger  off  along  the  stony  trails. 
The   days   crawl   on   to    Summer   suns   that 

slower  blaze  and  wheel; 
The  mesas  heave  and  quiver  in  the  noon. 

H5 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


The  mountains  they  are  ashes  and  the  sky  is 

shinin'  steel, 
Though  the  mockin'-birds  are  singin'  that 

it's  June. 
And  here  and  there  among  the  hills,  a-stand- 

in'  white  and  tall, 
The    droopin'    plumes    of    yucca    flowers 

gleam, 
The  buzzards  circle,  circle  where  the  starvin' 

cattle  fall 
And  the  whole  hot  land  seems  dyin'  in  a 

dream. 
But  last  across  the  sky-line  comes  a  thing 

that's  strange  and  new, 
A  little  cloud  of  saddle  blanket  size. 
It  blackens  'long  the  mountains  and  bulges  up 

the  blue 
And  shuts  the  weary  sun-glare  from  our 

eyes. 
Then  the  lightnin's  gash  the  heavens  and  the 

thunder  jars  the  world 
And  the  gray  of  fallin'  water  wraps  the 
plains, 

146 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


And    'cross    the    burnin'    ranges,    down    the 

wind,  the  word  is  whirled : 
"Here's   another   year   of   livin',    and   the 

Rains!" 
YouVe  seen  your  fat  fields  ripplin'  with  the 

treasure  that  they  hoard; 
Have  you  seen  a  mountain  stretch  and  rub 

its  eyes? 
Or  bare  hills  lift  their  streamin'  faces  up  and 

thank  the  Lord, 
Fairly  tremblin7  with  their  gladness  and 

surprise? 
Have  you  heard  the  'royos  singin'  and  the  new 

breeze  hummin'  gay, 
As   the  greenin'   ranges   shed  their  dusty 

stains — 
Just  a  whole  dead  world  sprung  back  to  life 

and  laughin'  in  a  day! 
Did  you  ever  see  the  comin'  of  the  Rains? 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  BORDER 

When  the  dreamers  of  old  Coronado, 

From  the  hills  where  the  heat  ripples  run, 
Made  a  dust  to  the  far  Colorado 

And  wagged  their  steel  caps  in  the  sun, 
They  prayed  like  the  saint  and  the  martyr 

And  swore  like  the  devils  below, 
For  a  man  is  both  angel  and  Tartar 

In  the  land  where  the  dry  rivers  flow. 

Ay,  the  Border,  the  sun  smitten  Border, 

That  fences  the  Land  of  the  Free, 
Where  the  desert  glares  grim  like  a  warder 

And  the  Rio  gleams  on  to  the  sea; 
Where  ruins,  like  dreamy  old  sages, 
Hint  tales  of  dead  empires  and  ages, 
Where  a  young  race  is  rearing  the  stages 
Of  ambitious  empires  to  be. 

Came  the  padres  to  soften  the  savage 
And  show  him  the  heavenly  goal ; 

Came  Spaniards  to  piously  ravage 
And  winnow  his  flesh  from  his  soul; 

148 


Grass  Grown  Trails 


Then  miner  and  riotous  herder, 

Over-riding  white  breed  of  the  North, 

Brought  progress,  and  new  sorts  of  murder, 
And  a  kind  of  perpetual  Fourth. 

Ay,  the  Border,  the  whimsical  Border, 

Deep  purples  and  dazzling  gold, 
Soft  hearts  full  of  mirthful  disorder, 
Hard  faces,  sun  wrinkled  and  old, 
Warm  kisses  'neath  patio  roses, 
Cold  lead  as  the  luck-god  disposes, 
Clean  valor  fame  never  discloses, 
Black  trespasses  laughingly  told! 

Then  out  from  the  peaceful  old  places 

Walked  the  Law,  grave,  strong  and  serene, 
And  the  harsh  elbow-rub  of  the  races 

Was  padded,  with  writs  in  between. 
Then  stilled  was  the  strife  and  the  racket 

That  neighborly  love  might  advance — 
With  a  knife  in  the  sleeve  of  its  jacket 

And  a  gun  in  the  band  of  its  pants. 

Ay,  the  Border,  the  bright,  placid  Border  1 
It  sleeps,  like  a  snake  in  the  sun, 

149 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Like  a  "hole"  tamped  and  primed  in  due  or- 
der, 

Like  a  shining  and  full  throated  gun. 
But  the  dust-devil  dances  and  staggers 
And  the  yucca  flower  daintily  swaggers 
At  her  birth  from  a  cluster  of  daggers, 

And  ever  the  heat  ripples  run. 

Fierce,  hot,  is  the  Border's  bright  daytime, 

Calm,  sweet,  the  vast  night  on  its  plains; 
White  hell  on  the  mesas,  its  May  time, 

A  green-and-gold  heaven,  its  Rains. 
It  is  grimmer  than  slumber's  dark  brother, 

'Tis  as  gay  as  the  mocking-bird  likes; 
It  loves  like  a  lioness  mother 

And  strikes  as  the  rattlesnake  strikes. 

Ay,  the  Border,  bewildering  Border, 

Our  youngest,  and  oldest,  domains, 
Where  the  face  of  the  Angel  Recorder 

Knits  hard  between  chuckles  and  pains, 
Vast  peace,  the  clear  sky's  earthly  double, 
Witch  cauldron  forever  a-bubble, 
Home  of  mystery,  splendor  and  trouble 
And  a  people  with  sun  in  their  veins. 

150 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


THE   BAD   LANDS 

No  fresh  green  things  in  the  Bad  Lands  bide; 

It  is  all  stark  red  and  gray, 
And  strewn  with  bones  that  had  lived  and 
died 

Ere  the  first  man  saw  the  day. 
When  the  sharp  crests  dream  in  the  sunset 
gleam 

And  the  bat  through  the  canyon  veers, 
You  will  sometimes  catch,  if  you  listen  long, 
The  tones  of  the  Bad  Lands'  mystic  song, 

A  song  of  a  million  years. 

The  place  is  as  dry  as  a  crater  cup, 

Yet  you  hear,  as  the  stars  shine  free, 
From  the  barren  gulches  sounding  up, 

The  lap  of  a  spawning  sea, 
A  breeze  that  cries  where  the  great  ferns  rise 

From  the  pools  on  a  new-made  shore, 
With  the  whip  and  whir  of  batlike  wings 
And  the  snarl  of  slimy,  fighting  things 

And  the  tread  of  the  dinosaur. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Then  the  sea  voice  ebbs  through  untold  morns, 

And  the  jungle  voices  reign — 
The  hunting  howl  and  the  clash  of  horns 

And  the  screech  of  rage  and  pain. 
Harsh  and  grim  is  the  old  earth  hymn 

In  that  far  brute  paradise, 
And  as  ages  drift  the  rough  strains  fall 
To  a  single  note  more  grim  than  all, 

The  crack  of  the  glacial  ice. 

So  the  song  runs  on,  with  shift  and  change, 

Through  the  years  that  have  no  name, 
And  the  late  notes  soar  to  a  higher  range, 

But  the  theme  is  still  the  same. 
Man's  battle-cry  and  the  guns'  reply 

Blend  in  with  the  old,  old  rhyme 
That  was  traced  in  the  score  of  the  strata 

marks 

While    millenniums    winked    like    campfire 
sparks 

Down  the  winds  of  unguessed  time. 

There's  a  finer  fight  than  of  tooth  and  claw, 
More  clean  than  of  blade  and  gun, 


Grass  Grown  Trails 


But,  fair  or  foul,  by  the  Great  Bard's  law 
'Twill  be  fight  till  the  song  is  done. 

Not  mine  to  sigh  for  the  song's  deep  "why," 
Which  only  the  Great  Bard  hears. 

My  soul  steps  out  to  the  martial  swing 

Of  the  brave  old  song  that  the  Bad  Lands 

sing, 
The  song  of  a  million  years. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  SPRINGTIME  PLAINS 

Heart  of  me,  are  you  hearing 
The  drum  of  hoofs  in  the  rains? 
Over  the  Springtime  plains  I  ride 
Knee  to  knee  with  Spring 
And  glad  as  the  summering  sun  that  comes 
Galloping  north  through  the  zodiac! 
Heart  of  me,  let's  forget 
The  plains  death  white  and  still, 
When  lonely  love  through  the  stillness  called 
Like  a  smothered  stream  that  sings  of  Summer 
Under  the  snow  on  a  Winter  night. 
Now  the  frost  is  blown  from  the  sky 
And  the  plains  are  living  again. 
Lark  lovers  sing  on  the  sunrise  trail, 
Wild  horses  call  to  me  out  of  the  noon, 
Watching  me  pass  with  impish  eyes, 
Gray  coyotes  laugh  in  the  quiet  dusk 
And  the  plains  are  glad  all  day  with  me. 
Heart  of  me,  all  the  way 
My  heart  and  the  hoofs  keep  time, 
And  the  wide,  sweet  winds  from  the  greening 
world 

154 


Grass  Grown  Trails 


Shout  in  my  ears  a  glory  song, 
For  nearer,  nearer,  mile  and  mile, 
Over  the  quivering  rim  of  the  plains, 
Is  the  valley  that  Spring  and  I  love  best 
And  the  waiting  eyes  of  you  1 


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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


ON  THE  OREGON  TRAIL 

We're  the  prairie  pilgrim  crew, 

Sailin'  with  the  sun, 
Lookin'  West  to  meet  a  great  reward, 
Trailin'  toward  a  land  that's  new 

Like  our  fathers  done, 
Trustin'  in  our  rifles  and  the  Lord. 

A-llset!    Go  ahead! 
Out  the  prairie  trail. 
Leave  the  woods  and  settlements  behind. 
Trail  and  settle,  work  and  fight 
Till  the  rollin'  earth  is  white, — 
That's  the  law  and  gospel  of  our  kind. 

Desert  suns  and  throats  o'  dust, 

But  we  never  ^top; 

Wimmin-folks  are  knittin'  as  they  ride. 
We're  a  breed  that,  when  we  must, 

Fight  until  we  drop, 
But  our  work  and  git-thar  is  our  pride. 

A-ll  set!     Go  ahead! 
Up  the  sandy  Platte. 
Leave  the  circle  smokinf  in  the  dawn, 

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Grass  Grown   Trails 


So  the  comin'  hosts  will  know, 
'Mongst  the  trails  of  buffalo 
Where  their  darin'  brother  whites  have  gone. 

Night  so  black  'twould  blind  a  fox, 

Yells  and  feathered  sleet, 
Aim  the  best  you  kin  and  trust  to  luck. 
Arrows  whang  the  wagon  box 

But  all  hell  kain't  beat 
Rifles  from  Missoury  and  Kentuck. 

A-ll  set!    Go  ahead! 
Leave  the  dead  to  sleep 
Till  the  desert  sees  the  Judgment  Day. 
Mourn  the  good  boys  laid  so  low, 
But  we'll  mourn  them  on  the  go — 
Pawnee!     O  gal  all  a!     Cl'ar  the  way! 

Far  across  the  glarin'  plain 

See  the  mountain  peaks 
Glimmer  'long  the  edge  like  flecks  o'  foam. 
Shove!  you  oxen,  till  your  chain 

Stretches  out  and  squeaks ; 
Somewhere  out  beyond  that  range  is  Home! 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


A-ll  sett    Go  ahead! 
Trailin'  toward  the  West 
Till  the  sunset's  shinin  flag  is  furled. 
Ay,  our  flag's  the  Western  skies, 
Flag  that  drew  our  fathers'  eyes, 
Flag   that  leads   the  white   man   'round  the 
world. 


158 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


THE  FOREST  RANGERS 

Red  is  the  arch  of  the  nightmare  sky, 
Red  are  the  mountains  beneath, 

Bright  where  a  million  red  imps  leap  high, 
Dancing  and  snapping  their  teeth. 

A  keen  fight!  a  clean  fight! 

Shoulder  your  shovels  and  follow 
Up,  while  they  stop  in  the  pines  at  the  top. 

Shooting  their  sparks  in  showers. 
Upf  with  your  hats  ducking  under  the  smoke 

of  it, 

Next  to  the  scorch  of  it,  into  the  choke  of  it! 
Fight  for  the  ranch  in  the  hollow. 
Fight!  for  it  is  not  ours. 

Why  are  we  fighting  from  dark  to  day, 

From  summit  to  canyon  wall? 
Twice  for  the  Service,  and  once  the  pay — 
Most,  the  hot  fun  of  it  all! 

A  stand  fight!  a  grand  fight! 
Into  the  smother  we  wallow, 

159 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Stopping  their  march  where  the  ridge  pines 

parch 

Over  the  shriveling  flowers. 
Stick/  with  the  smoke  streaming  out  of  the 

coats  of  you, 
Sweat  in  the  eyes  of  you,  fire  in  the  throats 

of  you! 

Fight  for  the  ranch  in  the  hollow. 
Fight!  for  it  is  not  ours. 


1 60 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


THE  YELLOW  STUFF 

By  the  rim  rocks  on  the  hill 

The  canyon  side  is  rifted 
Where  Grasping  Gabe,  with  pick  and  drill, 

Once  mucked  and  shot  and  drifted. 
His  hairy  arms  were  never  still; 

His  eyes  were  never  lifted. 

The  yellow  stuff!    The  yellow  stuff! 

All  day  his  steel  would  tinkle 
And  when  the  blast  roared  out  at  last 

He  scanned  each  rocky  wrinkle. 
That  tunnel's  face  was  life  to  him, 
And  joy  and  kids  and  wife  to  him 

Its  thread  of  yellow  twinkle. 

By  the  rim  rocks  where  he  wrought 

A  wall  that  looked  eternal 
Caved  in  one  day  and  Gabe  was  caught 

Snug  as  a  walnut  kernel, 
Shut  up  with  hunger,  thirst  and  thought 

In  dark  that  was  infernal. 

161 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


The  yellow  stuff!     The  yellow  stuff! 

Then  Gabe  forgot  its  uses, 
And  all  the  gold  the  hills  could  hold 

Looked  like  a  pair  of  deuces. 
No  joy  was  dust  and  ore  to  him; 
The  gold  outside  was  more  to  him 

That  slanted  through  the  spruces. 

By  the  rim  rocks,  far  away 

From  helpers  or  beholders, 
Gabe  worked  a  lifetime  in  a  day, 

Then  shoved  out  head  and  shoulders 
And  cried  and  kissed  the  light  that  lay 

Upon  the  sunny  boulders. 

The  yellow  stuff!    The  yellow  stuff! 

He  blessed  the  sunset  shining, 
Too  high  in  grade  to  be  assayed 

And  pure  beyond  refining. 
What  scum  his  work  had  doled  to  himf 
When  God  would  give  such  gold  to  him 

Without  a  lick  of  mining! 


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Grass  Grown  Trails 


THE   SHEEP-HERDER 

All  day  across  the  sagebrush  flat 

Beneath  the  sun  of  June, 
My  sheep  they  loaf  and  feed  and  blat 

Their  never  changin'  tune. 
And  then  at  night  time,  when  they  lay 

As  quiet  as  a  stone, 
I  hear  the  gray  wolf  far  away; 

"Alo-one!"  he  says,  "Alo-one!" 

A-a!  m-a!  ba-a!  eh-eh-eh! 

The  tune  the  'woollies  sing; 
It's  rasped  my  ears,  it  seems,  for  years, 

Though  really  just  since  spring; 
And  nothing  far  as  I  kin  see 

Around  the  circle's  sweep, 
But  sky  and  plains,  my  dreams  and  me 

And  them  infernal  sheep. 

Fve  got  one  book — it's  poetry — 

A  bunch  of  pretty  wrongs 
An  Eastern  lunger  gave  to  me; 

He  said  'twas  "shepherd  songs." 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


But  though  that  poet  sure  is  deep 
And  has  sweet  things  to  say, 

He  never  seen  a  herd  of  sheep, 
Or  smelt  them,  anyway. 

A-a!  ma-a!  ba-a!  eh-eh-eh! 

My  woollies  greasy  gray , 
An  awful  change  has  hit  the  range 

Since  that  old  poet's  day. 
For  you're  just  silly ,  on'ry  brutes 

And  I  look  like  distress 
And  my  pipe  ain't  the  kind  that  toots 

And  there's  no  "shepherdess" 

Yet  'way  down  home  in  Kansas  State, 

Bliss  Township,  Section  Five, 
There's  one  that  promised  me  to  wait, 

The  sweetest  girl  alive. 
That's  why  I  salt  my  wages  down 

And  mend  my  clothes  with  strings, 
While  others  blow  their  pay  in  town 

For  booze  and  other  things. 

A-a!  ma-a!  ba-a!  eh-eh-eh! 
My  Minnie,  don't  be  sad; 

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Grass  Grown   Trails 


Next  year  we'll  lease  that  splendid  piece 

That  corners  on  your  dad. 
We'll  drive  to  "literary"  dear, 

The  way  we  used  to  do 
And  turn  my  lonesome  workin*  here 

To  happiness  for  you. 

Suppose,  down  near  that  rattlers'  den, 

While  I  sit  here  and  dream, 
I'd  see  a  bunch  of  ugly  men 

And  hear  a  woman  scream. 
Suppose  I'd  let  my  rifle  shout 

And  drop  the  men  in  rows, 
And  then  the  woman  should  turn  out — 

My  Minnie! — just  suppose. 

A-a!  ma-a!  ba-a!  eh-eh-eh! 

The  tune  would  then  be  gay / 
There  is,  I  mind,  a  parson  kind 

Just  forty  miles  away. 
Why  Eden  would  come  back  again 

With  sage  and  sheep  corrals, 
And  I  could  swing  a  singin'  pen 

To  write  her  "pastorals" 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


I  pack  a  rifle  on  my  arm 

And  jump  at  flies  that  buzz; 
There's  nothin'  here  to  do  me  harm 

I  sometimes  wish  there  was. 
If  through  that  brush  above  the  pool 

A  red  should  creep — and  creep — 
Wah!  cut  down  on  'im!  Stop,  you  fool! 

That's  nothin'  but  a  sheep. 

A-at  ma-a!  ba-a! — Hell! 

Oh,  sky  and  plain  and  bluff! 
Unless  my  mail  comes  up  the  trail 

I'm  locoed,  sure  enough. 
What's  that? — a  dust-whiff  near  the  butte 

Right  where  my  last  trail  ran, 
A  movin*  speak,  a — wagon !    Hoot! 

Thank  God!  here  comes  a  man. 


1 66 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


THE    OLD    PROSPECTOR 

There's  a  song  in  the  canyon  below  me 

And  a  song  in  the  pines  overhead, 
As  the  sunlight  crawls  down  from  the  snow- 
line 

And  rustles  the  deer  from  his  bed. 
With  mountains  of  green  all  around  me 

And  mountains  of  white  up  above 
And  mountains  of  blue  down  the  sky-line, 

I  follow  the  trail  that  I  love. 

My  hands  they  are  hard  from  the  shovel, 

My  leg  is  rheumatic  by  streaks 
And  my  face  it  is  wrinkled  from  squintin' 

At  the  glint  of  the  sun  on  the  peaks. 
You  pity  the  prospector  sometimes 

As  if  he  was  out  of  your  grade. 
Why,  you  are  all  prospectors,  bless  you! 

I'm  only  a  branch  of  the  trade. 
You  prospect  for  wealth  and  for  wisdom, 

You  prospect  for  love  and  for  fame; 
Our  work  don't  just  match  as  to  details, 

But  the  principle's  mostly  the  same. 

167 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


While  I  swing  a  pick  in  the  mountains 
You  slave  in  the  dust  and  the  heat 

And  scratch  with  your  pens  for  a  color 
And  assay  the  float  of  the  street. 

You  wail  that  your  wisdom  is  salted, 

That  fame  never  pays  for  the  mill, 
That  wealth  hasn't  half  enough  value 

To  pay  you  for  climbin'  the  hill. 
You  even  say  love's  El  Dorado, 

A  pipe  dream  that  never  endures — 
Well,  my  luck  ain't  all  that  I  want  it, 

But  I  never  envied  you  yours. 
You're  welcome  to  what  the  town  gives  you, 

To  prizes  of  laurel  and  rose, 
But  leave  me  the  song  in  the  pine  tops, 

The  breath  of  a  wind  from  the  snows. 
With  mountains  of  green  all  around  me 

And  mountains  of  white  up  above 
And  mountains  of  blue  down  the  sky-line, 

I'll  follow  the  trail  that  I  love. 


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Grass  Grown   Trails 


GOD  OF  THE  OPEN 

God  of  the  open,  though  I  am  so  simple 

Out  in  the  wind  I  can  travel  with  you, 
Noons  when  the  hot  mesas  ripple  and  dimple, 

Nights  when  the  stars  glitter  cool  in  the 

blue. 
Too  far  you  stand  for  the  reach  of  my  hand, 

Yet  I  can  feel  your  big  heart  as  it  beats 
Friendly  and  warm  in  the  sun  or  the  storm. 

Are  you  the  same  as  the  God  of  the  streets? 

Yours  is  the  sunny  blue  roof  I  ride  under; 
Mountain  and  plain  are  the  house  you  have 

made. 
Sometimes  it  roars  with  the  wind  and  the 

thunder 

But  in  your  house  I  am  never  afraid. 
He?    Oh,  they  give  him  the  license  to  live, 

Aim,  in  their  ledgers,  to  pay  him  his  due, 
Gather  by  herds  to  present  him  with  words — 
Words  1    What  are  words  when  my  heart 
talks  with  you? 

169 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


God  of  the  open,  forgive  an  old  ranger 
Penned  among  walls  where  he  never  sees 

through. 
Well  do  I  know,  though  their  God  seems  a 

stranger, 

Earth  has  no  room  for  another  like  you. 
Shut  out  the  roll  of  the  wheels  from  my  soul ; 

Send  me  a  wind  that  is  singing  and  sweet 
Into  this  place  where  the  smoke  dims  your 

face. 
Help  me  see  you  in  the  God  of  the  street. 


170 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  TRAIL 

There  was  a  sunny,  savage  land 

Beneath  the  eagle's  wings, 
And  there,  across  the  thorns  and  sand, 

Wild  rovers  rode  as  kings. 
Is  it  a  yarn  from  long  ago 

And  far  across  the  sea? 
Could  that  land  be  the  land  we  know? 

Those  roving  riders  we? 

The  trail's  a  lane,  the  trail's  a  lane. 

How  comes  it,  pard  of  mine? 
Within  a  day  it  slipped  away 

And  hardly  left  a  sign. 
Now  history  a  tale  has  gained 

To  please  the  younger  ears — 
A  race  of  kings  that  rose,  and  reigned, 

And  passed  in  fifty  years! 

Dream  back  beyond  the  cramping  lanes 
To  glories  that  have  been — 

The  camp  smoke  on  the  sunset  plains, 
The  riders  loping  in : 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


Loose  rein  and  rowelled  heel  to  spare, 

The  wind  our  only  guide, 
For  youth  was  in  the  saddle  there 

With  half  a  world  to  ride. 

The  trail's  a  lane,  the  trail's  a  lane. 

Dead  is  the  branding  fire. 
The  prairies  'wild  are  tame  and  mild, 

All  close-corralled  with  wire. 
The  sunburnt  demigods  who  ranged 

And  laughed  and  lived  so  free 
Have  topped  the  last  divide f  or  changed 

To  men  like  you  and  me. 

Where,  in  the  valley  fields  and  fruits, 

Now  hums  a  lively  street, 
We  milled  a  mob  of  fighting  brutes 

Among  the  grim  mesquite. 
It  looks  a  far  and  fearful  way — 

The  trail  from  Now  to  Then — 
But  time  is  telescoped  to-day, 

A  hundred  years  in  ten. 

The  trail's  a  lane,  the  trail's  a  lane. 
Our  brows  are  scarcely  seamed, 

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Grass  Grown  Trails 


But  we  may  scan  a  mighty  span 
Methuselah   ne'er  dreamed. 

Yet,  pardner,  we  are  dull  and  old, 
With  paltry  hopes  and  fears, 

Beside  those  rovers  gay  and  bold 
Far  riding  down  the  years! 


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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


LATIGO  TOWN 

You  and  I  settled  this  section  together; 
Youthful  and  mettled  and  wild  were  we 

then. 
You    were    the    gladdest    town    out    in    the 

weather ; 

I  was  the  maddest  young  scamp   among 
men. 

Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 
Child  of  the  mesa  sun-flooded  and  brown, 
That   hour   of  gracious   romance   and  good 

leather, 
Splendid,  audacious,  comes  never  again. 

Many  a  rover  as  brash  as  a  sparrow, 
Loping  in  over  the  amethyst  plains, 

Reined  for  your  spinning  roulette  and  your 

faro, 
Light-hearted  sinning  and  fiddled  refrains. 

Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 
We  made  a  past  you  are  still  living  down, 
Keen  for  a  tussle,  with  salt  in  our  marrow, 
Steel  in  our  muscles  and  sun  in  our  veins! 

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Grass  Grown  Trails 


Rowels  that  jingled  and  rigs  that  were  tat- 
tered, 
Yet  how  we  tingled  to  dreams  that  were 

high! 

Slim  was  the  treasure  we  gathered  and  scat- 
tered, 
But  can  you  measure  the  wind  and  the  sky? 

Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 
Freedom   and  youth   were  a   robe   and  a 

crown. 

Then  we  were  bosses  of  riches  that  mattered, 
Laughing  at  losses  of  things  you  can  buy. 

Town  that  was  fiery  and  careless  and  Spanish, 
Boy  that  was  wiry  and  wayward  and  glad — 

Over  the  border  to  limbo  they  vanish ; 

Progress  and  order  decreed  they  were  bad. 

Latigo  Town,  ay,  Latigo  Town, 
Pursy  with  culture  and  civic  renown, 
Never  censorious  progress  can  banish 

Dreams  of  the  glorious  youth  that  we  had! 


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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  BUFFALO  TRAIL 

Deeply  the  buffalo  trod  it 

Beating  it  barren  as  brass; 
Now  the  soft  rain-fingers  sod  it, 

Green  to  the  crest  of  the  pass. 
Backward  it  slopes  into  history; 
Forward  it  lifts  into  mystery. 

Here  is  but  wind  in  the  grass. 

Backward  the  millions  assemble, 
Bannered  with  dust  overhead, 
Setting  the  prairie  a-tremble 

Under  the  might  of  their  tread. 
Forward  the  sky-line  is  glistening 
And  to  the  reach  of  our  listening 

Drifts  not  a  sound  from  the  dead. 

Quick,  or  swift  seasons  fade  it! 

Look  on  his  works  while  they  show. 
This  is  the  bison.    He  made  it. 

Thus  say  the  old  ones  who  know. 
This  is  the  bison — a-pondering 
Vague  as  the  prairie  wind  wandering 
Over  the  green  or  the  snow. 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


THE  CAMP  FIRE'S  SONG 

I  reared  your  fathers  long  ago — 

Big,  savage  children — from  the  breast, 

But  in  the  circle  of  my  glow 

You  sit  to-night  a  haughty  guest, 

For  far  beyond  their  artless  day 

Your  lofty  trail  has  stretched  away. 
So  wise!    so  wise! 

But  still  the  child  is  in  your  eyes. 

Your  fathers  feared  the  club  and  claw, 
Their  days  were  full  of  fight  and  flight; 

Behind  you  stands  your  mighty  law 
To  guard  your  lonely  sleep  to-night, 

Or,  if  some  lawless  brute  run  free, 

A  rifle  gleams  across  your  knee. 
So  strong!  so  wise! 

But  still  the  fear  is  in  your  eyes. 

They  filled  their  little  tents  with  spoil, 
Then  vaguely  longed  for  greater  things; 

Your  shining  cities  spurn  the  soil 

And  through  your  valleys  plenty  sings; 

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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


You  span  the  seas  they  endless  deemed 
And  rule  a  world  they  never  dreamed. 

So  great  1  so  wisel 
But  still  their  longing  in  your  eyes. 

They  made  them  gods  of  flood  and  fire; 

With  simple  awe  they  watched  the  stars; 
You  bend  all  powers  to  your  desire; 

The  river  gods  must  draw  your  cars, 
The  drudging  fire  gods  drive  your  fleets, 
The  lightning  slaves  about  your  streets. 

So  proud!  so  wise! 
Yet  their  old  wonder  in  your  eyes! 

They  dreamed  a  god  might  in  them  dwell 
Who  lived  beyond  the  silenced  heart; 

You  know  your  mortal  self  so  well — 
A  wondrous  thing  in  every  part, 

But  earthbound  as  this  gaunt  mesquite 

Or  firelit  dust  about  your  feet. 
So  hard!  so  wise! 

But  still  the  god  is  in  your  eyes. 

Poor  little  primal  thing  am  I, 

Great  stranger,  yet  I  mock  your  lore; 


Grass  Grown   Trails 


Your  thickest  volumes  often  lie 

And  these  still  stars  could  tell  you  more, 

The  wind  that  sighs  across  the  sand 

Or  I,  but  could  you  understand? 
So  wise!  so  wise! 

A  puzzled  child  within  your  eyes. 


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NEW  POEMS 


New  Poems 


PLAINS  BORN 

Westward  from  the  greener  places 

Where  the  rivers  glint  and  twine 
Stretch  the  gold-and-purple  spaces 

Of  the  country  that  is  mine ; 
And  to  lilac  Rockies  lifting 

Toward  the  deeper  blue  above, 
There  is  neither  flaw  nor  shifting 

In  the  title  of  my  love. 

My  own!  my  own! 
Many  a  silent,  sunny  zone, 

With  the  soft  cloud  shadows  drifting 
On  the  desert  and  the  sown! 

I  would  have  no  wall  or  warder 

Mar  my  goodly  heritage, 
From  the  yuccas  of  the  border 

To  the  snowy  northern  sage — 
Glad  of  every  wind  that  passes 

Down  the  mesa  and  the  plain, 
Singing  freedom  in  the  grasses 

And  my  pony's  rippling  mane. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


My  own/  my  own! 

There  is  freedom  here  alone, 

Under  midnight's  starry  masses 
Or  the  day  king  on  his  throne! 

Faith  must  blunder  on  in  blinkers 

Through  a  city's  swirling  rout, 
For  the  milling  herd  of  thinkers 

Blurs  the  way  of  wisdom  out; 
But  where  stainless  sky  is  bending 

Over  never-furrowed  sod 
There's  an  open  trail  ascending 

To  the  presence  of  a  Godl 

My  own!  my  own/ 

Where  the  troubled  eyes  are  shown 

Heaven  and  earth  forever  blending 
Round  the  blue  rim  of  the  known! 


184 


New  Poems 


THE  OLD  CAMP  COFFEE-POT 

Written  for  Eben  W.  Martin 

Old  camp-mate,  black  and  rough  to  see, 
A  hard-worked  aid  and  ally  you 
In  all  my  single-handed  wars 
With  naked  nature's  savagery. 
Your  scars  are  marks  of  service  true, 
Dear  loving-cup  of  out-o'-doors, 
And  history  in  every  spot 
Has  battered  you,  old  coffee-pot. 

Oh,  black  Pandora-box  of  dreams! 
Though  dry  of  drink  for  mortal  needs, 
Out  of  your  spout  what  fancies  flow! 
The  flash  of  trout  in  sunny  streams, 
The  swoop  of  ducks  among  the  reeds, 
The  buck  that  paws  the  reddened  snow — 
What  suns  and  storms,  what  dust  and  mire, 
What  gay,  tanned  faces  round  the  fire! 

So,  vividly  as  clouds  that  blaze 
Above  a  sunset's  rainy  red, 
Scene  after  scene,  you  bring  to  me 
The  camps  and  trails  of  other  days. 

185 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


And  as  a  shell,  long  dry  and  dead, 
Holds  echoes  of  its  native  sea, 
So  dear  old  murmurs,  half  forgot, 
Rise  from  your  depths,  old  coffee-pot. 

I  hear  the  stir  of  horses'  hoofs, 
The  solemn  challenge  of  the  owl, 
The  wind  song  on  the  piny  height, 
The  lilt  of  rain  on  canvas  roofs, 
The  far-off  coyote's  hungry  howl, 
And  all  the  camp  sounds  of  the  night. 
They  rise — a  thousand  things  like  these — 
From  you,  old  well  of  memories. 

Our  fires  are  dead  on  hill  and  plain 
And  old  camp  faces  lost  and  gone, 
But  yet  we  two  are  left,  old  friend. 
And  as  the  summers  bloom  and  wane 
May  I  meet  you  at  dusk  and  dawn 
By  many  fires  before  the  end, 
And  drink  to  you  in  nectar  hot 
From  your  black  throat,  old  coffee-pot 


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MY  ENEMY 

All  mornin'  in  the  mesa's  glare 
After  his  crouchin'  back  I  clattered, 

And  quick  shots  cut  the  heavy  air 
And  on  the  rocks  the  hot  lead  spattered. 

A  dollar  crimped,  a  word  too  free — 
My  enemy!    My  enemy! 

He  reined  beside  a  rattlers'  den 
And  faced  me  there  to  fix  the  winnin'. 

And  I  wished  that  he  would  turn  again, 
For  it  was  hard  to  kill  him  grinnin'. 

His  hands  were  empty,  I  could  see. 
My  enemy!    My  enemy! 

He  pointed  up;  he  pointed  back. 
I  looked,  and  half  forgot  my  hatin'. 

A  coyote  sneaked  along  our  track, 
A  buzzard  hung  above  us,  waitin'. 

"Are  us  four  all  akin?"  says  he. 
My  enemy!    My  enemy! 

The  coyote  crossed  the  desert's  rim, 
The  buzzard  circled  up  and  faded. 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


I  halved  my  only  smoke  with  him 
And  when  dark  found  us  limp  and  jaded, 
He  sat  and  kep'  the  fire  for  me, 
My  enemy  1    My  enemy !  1 


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New  Poems 


THE  FIGHTING  SWING 

Once  again  the  regiments  marching  down  the 

street, 
Shoulders,  legs  and  rifle  barrels  swinging 

all  in  time. 
Let  the  slack  civilian  plod;  ours  the  gayer 

feet, 

Dancing  to  the  music  of  the  oldest  earthly 
rhyme. 

Left!   Right!    Trim  and  tight,  hear  the  ca- 
dence fall. 
(So    the    legion    Caesar   loved   shook    the 

plains  of  Gaul.) 
Fighting  bloods  of  all  the  earth  in  our  pulses 

ring. 

Step,  lads,  true  to  the  dads!    Back  to  the 
fighting  swing! 

We  have  kissed  goodbye  to  care,  left  the  fret 

and  stew. 

Now  the  crows  may  steal  the  corn;  now 
the  milk  may  spill. 

189 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


All  the  worries  in  the  world  simmer  down  to 

two — 

One  is  how  to  dodge  the  shells ;  one  is  how 
to  kill. 

Left!  Right!  Glints  of  light — down  the  lines 

they  run. 
(So  the  Janizary  spears  caught  the  desert 

sun.) 
Once  again  the  fighting  steel  has  its  ancient 

fling- 
Flash!   sway/   battle   array.     Back    to   the 
fighting  swing! 

Every  eye  is  hard  and  straight;  every  head 

is  high. 
Groping,  wrangling  days  are  done;  let  the 

leaders  lead. 

Regulations  how  to  live,  orders  when  to  die — 
Life  and  death  in  primer  print  any  man 
can  read. 

Left!    Right!    Eat  and  fight!    Dreams  are 
blown  to  bits. 

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New  Poems 


(Here's  the  Old  Guard  back  to  life,  bound 

for  Austerlitz.) 
Drop  the  soft  and  quit  the  sweet;  loose  the 

arms  that  cling. 

Blood,  dust,  grapple  and  thrust — back  to 
the  fighting  swing! 


191 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


THE  SMOKE-BLUE  PLAINS 

Kissed  me  from  the  saddle  and  I  still  can 

feel  it  burning, 
But  he  must  have  felt  it  cold,  for  ice  was 

in  my  veins. 
I  shall  always  see  him  as  he  waved  above  the 

turning, 
Riding  down  the  canyon  to  the  smoke-blue 

plains. 
Oh,  the  smoke-blue  plains!  how  I  used  to 

watch  them  sleeping, 
Thinking  peace  had  dimmed  them  with  the 

shadow  of  her  wings ; 
Now  their  gentle  haze  will  seem  a  smoke  of 

death  a-creeping, 

Drifted  from  the  battles  in  the  country  of 
the  kings. 

Joked  me  to  the  last,  and  in  a  voice  without  a 

quaver — 
Man  o'  mine! — but  underneath  the  tan  his 

cheek  was  pale. 
Never  did  the  nation  breed  a  kinder  or  a 

braver 

Since  our  fathers  landed  from  the  long  sea 
trail. 

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New  Poems 


Oh,  the  long  sea  trail  he  must  leave  me  here 

and  follow — 
He   that  never   saw   a   ship — to   dare   its 

chances  blind, 
Out  the  deadly  reaches  where  the  sinking 

steamers  wallow. 

Back  to  trampled  countries  that  his  fathers 
left  behind. 

Down  beyond  the  plains  among  the  fighting 

and  the  dying, 

God  must  watch  his  reckless  foot  and  fol- 
low where  it  lights ; 
Guard  the  places  where  his  blessed  tousled 

head  is  lying — 
Head  my  shoulder  pillowed  through  the 

warm,  safe  nights! 
Oh,   the  warm,   safe  nights,   and  the   pines 

above  the  shingles  1 
Can  I  stand  their  crooning  and  the  patter 

of  the  rains? 
Oh,  the  sunny  quiet,  and  a  bridle  bit  that 

jingles, 

Coming  up  the  canyon  from  the  smoke- 
blue  plains! 

193 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


OTHERS 

The  daybreak  comes  so  pure  and  still. 

He  said  that  I  was  pure  as  dawn, 
That  day  we  climbed  to  Signal  Hill, 

Back  there  before  the  war  came  on. 
God  keep  me  pure  as  he  is  brave, 

And  fit  to  take  his  name. 
I  let  him  go  and  fight  to  save 

Some  other  girl  from  shame. 

Across  the  gulch  it  glimmers  white, 

The  little  house  we  plotted  for. 
We  would  be  sitting  there  tonight 

If  he  had  never  gone  to  war — 
The  firelight  and  the  cricket's  cheep, 

My  arm  around  his  neck — 
I  let  him  go  and  fight  to  keep 

Some  other  home  from  wreck. 

And  every  day  I  ride  to  town 

The  wide  lands  talk  to  me  of  him — 

The  slopes  with  pine  trees  marching  down, 
The  spread-out  prairies,  blue  and  dim. 

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Huffman-Stevenson. 


(W 'hen  the  last  free  trail  is  a  prim,  fenced  lane 

And  our  graves  grow  'weeds  through  forgetful  Mays, 

Richer  and  statelier  then  you'll  reign, 

Mother  of  men  whom  the  world  will  praise. 

And  your  sons  will  love  you  and  sigh  for  you, 

Labor  and  battle  and  die  for  you, 

But  never  the  fondest  will  understand 

The  way  we  have  loved  you,  young,  young  land." 


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New  Poems 


He  loved  it  for  the  freedom's  sake 

Almost  as  he  loved  me. 
I  let  him  go  and  fight  to  make 

Some  other  country  free. 


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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


'  JEFF  HART 

Jeff  Hart  rode  out  of  the  gulch  to  war 

When  the  low  sun  yellowed  the  pines. 
He  waved  to  his  folks  in  the  cabin  door 

And  yelled  to  the  men  at  the  mines. 
The  gulch  kept  watch  till  he  dropped  from 
sight — 

Neighbors  and  girl  and  kin. 
Jeff  Hart  rode  out  of  the  gulch  one  night; 

Next  morning  the  world  came  in. 

His  dad  went  back  to  the  clinking  drills 

And  his  mother  cooked  for  the  men; 
The  pines  branched  black  on  the  eastern  hills, 

Then  black  to  the  west  again. 
But  never  again,  by  dusk  or  dawn, 

Were  the  days  in  the  gulch  the  same, 
For  back  up  the  trail  Jeff  Hart  had  gone 

The  trample  of  millions  came. 

Then  never  a  clatter  of  dynamite 
But  echoed  the  guns  of  the  Aisne, 

And  the  coyote's  wail  in  the  woods  at  night 
Was  bitter  with  Belgium's  pain. 


New  Poems 


We  heard  the  snarl  of  a  savage  sea 

In  the  pines  when  the  wind  went  through, 

And  the  strangers  Jeff  Hart  fought  to  free 
Grew  folks  to  the  folks  he  knew. 

Jeff  Hart  has  drifted  for  good  and  all, 

To  the  ghostly  bugles  blown, 
But  the  far  French  valley  that  saw  him  fall 

Blood  kin  to  the  gulch  is  grown; 
And  his  foreign  folks  are  ours  by  right — 

The  friends  that  he  died  to  win. 
Jeff  Hart  rode  out  of  the  gulch  one  night; 

Next  morning  the  world  came  in. 


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Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


BATTLE 

Do  you  mind  that  old  fight  in  The  Rattles, 

Whether  sheep  or  cattle  men  should  rule? 
Was  it  that,  or  was  it  like  most  battles — 

Just  a  drink  too  many,  or  a  fool? 
Anyhow,  we  all  were  feelin'  funny, 

Strong  with  lopin'  weeks  of  wind  and  sun, 
Gay,  for  every  hand  was  full  of  money, 

Safe,  for  every  sinner  packed  a  gun. 
Hi!   My!  We  know  it,  you  and  I — 

'Twas  safer  in  the  days  we  packed  a  gun. 

Seems  to  me  that  Hell  bulged  up  from  under 

Through     the     floor,     volcano-like,     and 

broke — 
Spits  of  leaded  lightnin'  with  its  thunder, 

Swearin'     imps     a-whirlin'     through     the 

smoke — 
Dodging  shootin'  fast  as  they  were  able, 

Glass  and  flyin'  splinters  in  a  spray — 
I  was  jammed  behind  a  poker  table, 

So  I  had  to  pull  and  blaze  away. 
Hi!  My!  Who  of  us  thought  to  die? 

All  we  knowed  was  pull  and  blaze  away. 

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New  Poems 


So  we  had  a  rippin'  roarin'  revel 

With  the  red  firewater  of  the  kill, 
Dancin'  to  the  pipin'  of  the  devil — 

Then  the  time  arrived  to  pay  the  bill. 
Bud  and  Pecos,  one  across  the  other, 

Dead  below  the  bluish  powder  swirls. 
Bud,  that  sent  his  money  to  his  mother  I 

Pecos,  with  the  pigtailed  little  girls  1 
Hi!  My!  I  always  wonder  why 

The  bill  must  go  to  mother  and  the  girls ! 


199 


Sun  and  Saddle  Leather 


IN  THE  HILLS 
The  shadow  crawls  up  canyon  walls ;  the  rim 

rocks  flush  to  pink 
A  sleepy  night  hawk  lurches  up  among  the 

pines  to  soar, 
And  we  can  hear  a  thirsty  deer  tiptoeing 

down  to  drink 
Among  the  glimmering  birches  on  the  hazy 

canyon  floor. 
Sister,  sister,  it  seems  a  staring  pity — 

Somewhere  there  is  a  city,  and  one  time 
there  was  a  war. 

Around  the  bend  the  thickets  end  in  field  and 

garden  spot, 
And  little  ranches  lifting  smokes  that  make 

the  twilight  sweet. 
Beneath   the   smokes   the   women   folks   are 

watching  pan  and  pot, 
While  joking  men  are  drifting  in  to  smell 

the  sizzling  meat. 

Sister,  sister,  and  is  it  truth  or  lying 
That  somewhere  folks  are  dying  for  the 
want  of  things  to  eat? 

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New  Poems 


Along  the  hill  the  winds  are  still,  and  still, 

blue  shadows  rise, 
And  quiet  bats  are  winging  out,  but  down 

the  canyon  floor 
The  swift  creek  purls  in  dusky  swirls  that 

mind  me  of  your  eyes 
And  keeps  the  stillness  singing  here  for 

ever,  evermore. 

Sister,  sister,  and  is  it  true,  I  wonder — 
Somewhere  the  loud  streets  thunder,  and 
one  time  there  was  a  war. 


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